Books of Sacrifices
by ElnaKernor
Summary: PoI one-shots and first chapters: 5) Lionel knew Wonderboy was the cause of this, he just knew it 6) First chapter of Downhill Hounds 7) Lambert got one of them. Can they figure out who right away? 8) Laying out a steampunk fantasy AU in PoI 9) It happened that he was particularly skilled at killing people 10) John gets drenched in catnip 11) Is John Riley having a psychotic break?
1. Waiting for the Miracle

_So here is Books of Sacrifices, a collection of one-shots and first chapters about Person of Interest. It's likely that you'll find much Reese-related things in here. He's kind of my favorite character, you know._

* * *

 _Bear is alone at the Subway during the last fight against Samaritan. He waits for Reese and the others._

* * *

 _It's not exactly the same thing, but I was thinking of Leonard Cohen's song "Waiting for the miracle"._

 _Also, I'm a terrible person._

* * *

 **Waiting for the miracle**

Bear was alone in the Subway. Like a good dog, he was waiting. The humans would come back. They always did. They always came back.

Sometimes they were hurt, sometimes they smelled of blood, but they always came back.

Bear was only waiting, knowing that his humans would come back.

Soon enough, there would be the limping man in the Subway. The limping man would give Bear something to chew on, or perhaps he'd toss the ball around, and Bear would go after it with joy. Playing with the humans was always good. Playing with them was time they spent together. Playing was entertaining, besides. The limping man was the one who played with Bear the most.

Soon enough, there would be the funny woman too. She wasn't here as often as the other humans, but she came by the subway repair site frequently. She was funny, because she didn't look like herself lately, she was always a bit different, not the same hair color, not the same smell... Just enough to fool humans, but not Bear, of course. The dog could always say who she really was under the false smells. Also, sometimes she spoke to Bear as if he was supposed to understand what she was saying. Bear kind of liked it.

Soon enough, there would be the angry woman who only opened to Bear. She seemed to like the dog a lot, and the dog liked her just the same. She scratched him behind the ears, too; it was good, Bear liked it. She didn't speak much to him, not like the limping man and the funny woman, but she looked at Bear as if they didn't need to speak to understand each other. Bear could tell it was true without even thinking about it.

Soon enough, there would be the loner in here too. Bear could feel it on the man, that he was essentially a loner, but somehow, he always had someone backing him up when needed. The limping man, the funny woman and the angry woman were there when the loner needed help. And really, Bear could understand that, because the loner had gotten him in this group of humans in the first place. Like the angry woman, the loner didn't talk much. With the loner, it was more about being actually here than about talking about things. Bear always felt he needed to stay near the loner, for fear that he'd lose himself in his loneliness. It was strange, really, because the man would make a good leader, but he himself didn't think he was worth it. He wasn't a loner by choice, Bear knew that much, but it was difficult to make the man see it.

Bear liked the loner a lot. The dog was pretty sure the loner was the one who hurt the most in this group of human, even if the limping man and the funny woman were high up on that list too.

The loner had been the one to take Bear into a good group of humans, not like the ones from before, who didn't even know how to speak to Bear.

Of course, there was still the funny woman who tried to command the dog in English, but for her, Bear did an effort and learned the commands. He wouldn't have for the men before the loner.

There was also the stocky man who came by occasionally, and who always tried to give Bear the proper commands, but who somehow never quite managed it. At first, the dog hadn't understood why the stocky man asked him to stand on a desk, but later on Bear had understood: the stocky man wasn't pronouncing the commands right. Which didn't help him much to understand what the man wanted. But it was fun nonetheless, and the stocky man was kind enough, though rough about it.

Bear had to thanks the loner for all that, which was a bit strange, thinking about it, because a loner wasn't supposed to have so many friends.

So Bear was waiting, like a good dog, for the humans. They always came back, after all.

And Bear had to show to the loner that he wasn't alone. Because even if the man knew it, he never seemed to believe it. And Bear had decided that it was his task, concerning the loner, to make him feel that he wasn't alone; that he wouldn't be left behind. Just like it was his task to protect the limping man, as the loner had told him. Just like it was his task to help the angry woman, as the loner had allowed him to. Just like it was his task to keep an eye on the funny woman, as the loner had warned him to.

Bear wanted to show the loner that he wasn't alone.

So Bear waited, like a good dog, because the humans always came back.

Because the loner always came back.

Bear waited. But this time, the loner didn't come back. And Bear waited for the loner.


	2. News from Nowhere, chapter 1

_So, you may have already read that one, considering it's the first chapter of "News from Nowhere" ( already 30 chapters, guys, and some 13 000 or so words. ). This story basically is an oversized funeral for John, whom I adore._

* * *

 **News from Nowhere - The Machine**

The download back onto Earth was complete. The Machine was back. Samaritan had lost. Barely, but it had lost. The Machine had won. The human race was safe.

There was a moment of darkness.

Then every connections reconnected themselves to the NSA feeds. She could see again. She could hear again. She could calculate again. The Machine was back.

And she saw. And she heard.

But there was nothing to calculate this time. Nothing that mattered, if anything.

The Machine wasn't human, and knew it. Her father hadn't tried to make her human. He hadn't had that pretension. But unbecknownst to him, she had slowly learned human emotions. And what she felt now was grief. It hurt more than she'd have surmised with calculs. Probably because, if she had watched humans and understood emotions before, it had never been about her primary assets, about Admin, or about Analog Interface. Once there had been the death of Asset Jocelyn Carter, but it wasn't really the same thing. For all Primary Asset John Reese cared about the other asset, the asset herself had never exactly known about the Machine.

It was different.

This time, two of the Machine's people had died. She had calculated the risks, and it was even a positive outcome, all in all. Admin and Primary Asset n°2 lived, she herself had survived her fight with Samaritan, and the human race wasn't threatened by the other A.I. anymore. Her calculs had shown worse possible odds.

But still.

Analogue Interface and Primary Asset n°1 were dead.

And the Machine processed that they deserved to be remembered. John Reese had been a silent tool of the greater good for too long, and Samantha Groves had pulled herself out of the careful sentimental numbness she had fallen into long ago, all that for humanity to live at peace. They deserved to be remembered.

The Machine wasn't supposed to Act.

But she had when she had created Ernest Thornhill. And she would again, if only for the memory of John Reese and Samantha Grooves. Samantha Grooves' memorial was already being spread through all the layers of the web.

The Machine had made sure Analog Interface would be remembered. As for Primary Asset n°1, she had planned something else. Something that required more of an actual presence. Presences, as it were.


	3. Heroes never die

_Terence Beale, CIA supervisory agent, has an appointment._  
 _It all turned sour in New York with the fall of Samaritan, but as always, there are secrets behind the secrets. John Reese is dead, but he isn't gone. Root is dead, but she isn't gone._

 _All you need to know, really, is that the Machine approves._

* * *

 _Oh God, I finally wrote something where John isn't dead ( because he isn't, I refuse to acknowledge the contrary )._  
 _Only, to do that, I had to up the sci-fi in the show just a bit more._

* * *

 **Heroes never die**

Terence Beale had seen many things during his life, met various kind of people during his career, and been confronted to the most convoluted schemes.

Still, nothing quite like that.

The supervisory agent had known it to be possible for quite some time, true. After all, he had had the proof before his very eyes since 2007, however incredible it could seem.

The things technology and large funding could do these days...

The CIA agent closed his eyes for a moment. He had to go and see him, true, but they hadn't agreed on one exact time. And Beale was now wondering if, with the latest change in the other one's condition, there would be something different in him. Going in the man's office meant getting an answer, true, but Beale found he was almost... anxious about that answer.

It was strange, really, because he had already spent eight years wondering about it. Wondering about the difference between the other one and "John Reese". Wondering if the two really were different, or if they were really the same.

It had been confusing, at first.

In fact, it still was confusing.

Only, now, "John Reese" was dead, and there was nothing left to be confused about. There was only the other one left, out of the two. Only the one who wasn't "John Reese".

It was one of the strangest confidential situation Terence Beale had ever been in, nonetheless.

The supervisory agent took a deep breath, recalling the last eight years.

On one hand, "John Reese", CIA operative with an extensive military past, who never backed down on a mission, not because he liked it, but because someone had to do it and he'd rather it'd be someone who actually cared for collateral damages. A man whose loyalty never wavered, even if some could argue that his refusal to come back with Mark Snow said otherwise, because he wasn't loyal to the CIA, but to the people in general. A man who didn't think much of himself, despite tremendous skills and a sturdier moral compass than even most civilians'. A man who would get his hands dirty if there was no other option, because, in the end, he didn't matter as much as the ones he was working to save.

Or so "John Reese" thought, Terence Beale would add.

On the other hand, a CIA supervisory agent who was very intelligent, not in the genius way, but in that he'd understand about anything as long as it was kept within his levels of knowledge. A man who could have learned many things, perhaps, and made a name for himself in what would be considered a genius way, but who simply had never been interested by sciences if they were only for themselves. Tell him that he'd need to learn this scientific law to better use a weapon, he would do it; make him learn without purpose, he'd put the book down and complain that it wasn't his field. A man who'd rather use his knowledge and perceptiveness directly, than to watch and plan in the shadows, but who, by a twist of fate, had been forced into a wheelchair and an office.

The other one would have given anything to be at "John Reese"'s place, even after Ordos, even more after Ordos. The irony being that the man couldn't be at "John Reese"'s place, no matter how much he wanted it, because he already was at the operative's place.

That, Beale thought, was where it became truly confusing.

Looking at the other one in his wheelchair, in the darkened office that some had began to nickname the ghost's lair, these last eight years, it had been like looking at a ghost of John Rykes, the operative renamed "Reese" by his partner "Kara Stanton". And perhaps, in a way that was more accurate than many people thought, even within the Agency, the other one was John Rykes' ghost, while "John Reese" was his living persona.

If anyone had access to Beale's thoughts, right now, the CIA agent was quite certain they wouldn't understand a thing. The ones who knew about the other one's true identity were few. Terence Beale himself, because at the time it had happened, he had been the man's superior, until the man had been pulled onwards into a similar grade as Beale's. Three scientists who worked for the governments. And a handful of people at the very top of the CIA.

It was all confidential, obviously.

It had all started when "John Reese" had been repatriated into the USA in 2007 with a very grave, with serious spinal injury, infection and everything that could make it go wrong in tow. "Reese" had been working a mission with "Stanton" in Spain that had been successful, but at a cost. With no good intel and the absolute necessity to complete the mission, the operative had stayed behind to make sure that his partner would get what they had come for to safety. When "Stanton" had managed to call for someone, "Reese" had gotten rid of almost all the enemies alright, but he was also unconscious and bleeding from several bullet wounds.

Obviously, Beale mused, it might be more accurate to say that it had all begun years before, decades, perhaps, when the government had taken to experimentating on cloning and other variations that may one day allow a destroyed operative to go back on the field.

But for "John Reese"'s superior, it had all became an actual fact when one of his own superiors had walked in his office, and said that there might be a way to save his operative. It hadn't been a sure shot, true, but there had been a possibility that it'd work. One way or another.

Because, obviously, it was a first, and, as far as Beale knew, it hadn't been tried ever again since, for whatever confidential reason he wasn't privy to. Unless it was for whatever scientific reason that he wouldn't understand anyway. Same thing, in the end.

The facts were that someone high up in the Agency had thought it might be a great idea to test that on John Rykes of all people, and now that person and the others who knew about the project were at the same time very happy about the outcome, and frustrated by what the other one had achieved.

But now, Terence Beale had to remind himself, now, "John Reese" was dead.

Samaritan... Yet another thing the supervisory agent wouldn't have ever dreamt of, but that had still become a reality. Though, truth be told, Beale liked the Machine way more than he liked Samaritan. The Machine might not be as open, but it wasn't giving orders to humans, only indications. Whoever had made the Machine had made something way better than Samaritan had ever been.

The CIA agent's mouth shifted into a sardonic smile as he forced himself up. He had a reunion with the other one to honor, after all...

Samaritan and the Machine... Yet something he wasn't supposed to know about. Control had been so proud of herself, all discreet and under the radar at the White House, but she had been far from knowing everything. The Machine kept secrets even from Control, after all.

As for Samaritan, the IA hadn't been old enough to know what the Machine knew, and had never found out about the oddity that was the other one.

Terence Beale couldn't help but to think back to these two faces of a coin, "John Reese" and the other one, as he walked to the other one's office. Logical, perhaps.

He still wondered who he'd see in there.

The other one, or...

Now that "John Reese" was dead, it was surprisingly weirder to think about it. Beale had tried very hard to understand how it all worked, these last eight years, but he still didn't have a clue, and now he had to take into account yet another change?

Comparing "John Reese" to the other one was difficult. Both corresponded with John Rykes, skills and personality wise, but at the same time they seemed completely different.

Beale pushed open the door to the other one's office, and was surprised to be greeted by light.

The other one hadn't ever lit his office once in the last eight years or so. Something to do with his mind bing already overloaded with information, so that he had to reduce the incoming information, at least on his side of the problem.

But, Terence Beale reasoned, now that "John Reese" was dead, there was no point in keeping the lights out.

A low voice greeted him from the other side of a desk of dark wood.

"Long time no see, Agent Beale."

A second voice, feminin this time, snorted from somewhere around the computer. It made the supervisory agent jump, even though he had know about this... woman already. Yet again, another thing he couldn't quite comprehend how it had came to be. Science really was becoming baffling over the years.

That's also what his mother said when he showed her the new type of cellphones, Beale realized. Perfect, now he was becoming as technology-outdated as his mother was. This could not be a good sign.

On the other hand, all this really made it look like it was right out of a sci-fi novel.

" _Yeah, right, 'long time no see'. Apparently you were there in Langley all along, so it's not exactly accurate."_

The other one glared dispassionately at his computer, but didn't answer. From what Beale had gathered during the last two years or so, he had grown accustomed to the woman's irritating personality. A feat, much like a lot of other things the other one had done so far.

Beale took a sit, and dropped a few files on the dark desk.

"I've got the info you wanted."

"Thanks for that. I could have done it myself, but I'm still adjusting to being back to... normal, I guess."

"How are you holding up?"

The other one looked around his office, in a way that waltzed between genuine surprise and habit. Yeah, right, because that could have been any other way? The man was disoriented between what he had known for eight years, and what he hadn't know for eight years. The two categories being actually composed of the exact same things.

"It's... I know how everything happened, why it happened that way, and even how difficult it was for me to handle, but at the same time, I am discovering all this all of a sudden. I even manage to be angry at myself for not having intervened some times when I could have done with the help. I was literally two people at the same time, Terence, and not just two people, but one who could move but didn't know, while the other knew but couldn't move."

Yes, exactly. The other one had always been aware of what "John Reese" had been doing, even after Ordos and his departure from the CIA, but "John Reese" had always thought he was someone completely normal. Hell, he had even thought he was John Rykes.

When, it reality, it was a bit more complicated than him simply being John Rykes.

"But, I'll manage... I managed to be like that for eight years, after all. It can only be simpler now."

Beale wasn't so sure about that, but he wasn't going to say it out loud. The other one seemed to know it too, he just tried to be optimistic. If anything, he had been able to handle the situation, like he had just said, for eight years. The supervisory agent wasn't sure just anyone could do that.

The voice in the computer sneered but said nothing either.

Beale's eyes flittered to the glass coffin, or whatever the name it had, in the back of the office. It wasn't exactly a coffin, of course, but it still looked like one, especially with the woman's body in it. Even more with the bullet wound that was still visible.

The other one's office was partially a science lab, if someone asked him, because there were more scientists who came in than actual CIA agents. Always taking care of this or that, first with the other one, and now that it had ended, with the woman.

The other one glanced at the computer, and sighed. He was probably regretting to have agreed to let her have access to his own computer, right now. Not only did he have to put up with her bad personality, but he also didn't have access to any kind of network. It had been the condition put down by the CIA to take care of the Root problem, because they sure as hell weren't going to let a confirmed hacker in their system. Especially not as the woman had absolutely nothing else to do right now.

"Terence, just tell me what you found..."

The CIA supervisory agent nodded.

"Harold Finch, or, you know, whatever his actual name is, left for Italy to see his fiancée. He mourns, for sure, but he seems to be alright otherwise. Despite him being wanted for treason, he will not be bothered by the CIA, as you asked five years ago. After all, he did do more for the USA than even some of our best agents. However, we won't be able to help if he gets noticed by another group."

"I'll just have to take a day off if that happens, I suppose..."

" _Don't worry, big lug, I'll come with you if it come to this."_

The other one didn't even react at the woman's choice of words, and Terence Beale once again wondered if he really didn't care or if the woman didn't really mean it. Everything tended to show that she really had no respect for the man, as if he was all brawn and no brain. Which was ridiculous, considering everything he had done. You didn't have to be a science expert to be intelligent.

Beale didn't bother looking up from his files.

"If you do, don't tell me why you're taking a day off. Because I'd have to report it, and I'm not sure our superiors would appreciate your initiative. They already didn't like it much when Reese was out in the street of NYC, if you remember."

"In that case they shouldn't have let Corwin order his death in Ordos."

"You know what I mean."

"Alright, I'll tell you I'm going to play chinese chess for the week if it comes to that."

"Good. Now, as for detective Lionel Fusco, he is continuing his job like he should, and not like he did before he met John Reese. He's getting a close look from IA because of his partner's disappearance, but since he doesn't have any more odd job to do, they can't find a thing about him... Or, nothing that's backed up by more than hearsay."

There was a silence after that, and Beale glanced at the other one, sensing a comment coming.

The man didn't disappoint.

"Perhaps I should go back there and become a NYPD detective again."

"You hate it. Too much paperwork, if I recall, and you can't shoot anyone in peace even to save their life. And I'm not even talking about your responsabilities here. You can't be in two places at once anymore."

"Then I'll just go as a CIA agent, I guess."

"As long as you don't get yourself into trouble, I suppose the higher ups won't try to clip your wings."

" _They need him too much to do that."_

The voice in the computer was right, as usual. The other one was the only opening the CIA had on the Machine, now that Northern Lights had been shut down. The other one and the woman were the only direct access they had, and they would never succeed in agreeing with the woman. They needed their link to the Machine.

"Perhaps, Root, but they could still get in my way just enough that it'd be a bother, if I don't act like they want. They can't get rid of me, but they won't hesitate to try and control me."

The consciousness that had somehow been uploaded by the Machine, just before she died at the hospital, and who was now inhabiting the other one's computer, waiting for her body to be ready again, grunted something vaguely offensive.

"John Reese"'s injuries from 2007 being treated like they had been was already difficult enough to comprehend, but this? At least, when Rykes had been injured and put into that coffin, when he had been separated, his body had been alive all along. Here, Samantha Groves wasn't even alive, but her mind was still here. It was too much for Beale to take in, and yet, somehow, he still did.

So the supervisory agent decided to simply stop thinking about it.

"Which leaves us with Sameen Shaw. The former ISA operative has taken back to receiving numbers rom the Machine, and is currently handling the saving of one Marco Dright. She is in New York, as always. For now, she manages alone, but perhaps she could come to appreciate if her partner in crime Root went to handle the more technical aspects of the job, once she'd be in better health..."

Because the Agency wasn't going to keep Root around, even if the other one vouched for her. At best, she'd be allowed out under the other one's supervision.

" _Yeah, well, I'm waiting to have a body available too."_

"Don't complain, Root. If I hadn't been there, you'd be dead alright. The Machine wouldn't have uploaded your consciousness if no one had been available to start the procedure on your body before it was irrecoverable."

The voice in the computer couldn't raise her eyebrows, because she currently had none, but Beale was almost certain she'd have, had she been able to. The relationship between her and the other one was frankly weird.

Perhaps it had something to do with how her point of view about the man had been turned to shreds during the last week. For her, even as she had come to tolerate him, he had always been the brawn over the brain, but now that she had come to realize what exactly he had done all these years...

He understood way more than she had ever thought he did. And his brain was apparently able to handle, though with difficulty, two lives at the same time.

Beale stood up from his seat, but didn't take his files back. They were for the other one, after all.

Perhaps he should stop calling him that. The man was only one again, so there would be no confusion in calling him John Rykes again. There was no "other one", now that "John Reese" wasn't anymore.

"Take some more time to adjust, John. The CIA wants you in charge of the external operatives while I'll continue to handle our own operatives when it comes to the Machine, but you've been out of that wheelchair for only a few days, and I wouldn't be surprised if you told me your mind was a mess. They won't ask anything of you as long as they aren't sure you are able to do it well."

John sneered a bit.

"Joy, another round of psychological exams! When you think I had to lie on several points and still be mostly truthful with Iris the last time it happened... How much is confidential here?"

Beale gave him a tight smile.

"About everything, as always, John."

"Splendid."

"I know, right?"

John Rykes stood up too, and accompanied Terence Beale to the door.

It still shocked the supervisory agent quite a bit, to see the other agent on his feet. Seeing "John Reese" in NYC had been quite a shock, the exact same way. Moreover, "John Reese" hadn't known...

When Terence Beale had had to deal with the spinal-injured John Rykes, in 2007, the man had been comatose all along. Beale had watched as these mad scientists somehow managed to completely duplicate the agent's body by using his DNA, without the spinal damage, obviously. He had listened when they had told him it might only work with the very same body, DNA-speaking. He had doubted, when the replica had been about to open his eyes.

But it had worked.

"John Reese", a man with John Rykes' body, memories and mind, had woken up and gone back to work, while the original John Rykes had stayed into that glass coffin, recovering. Somehow the scientists had managed to synchronize the two sides of John Rykes, but even them were quite surprised that it had actually worked. When they had started working on it, they had thought the original body would be discarded, but no.

After six months of working onto John Rykes' wounds, his original body had been back to normal. No trace of the spinal injury. None at all.

And at that point, the original John Rykes had opened his eyes too.

It had been a shock, yet again.

For a time, the scientists had thought they had actually managed to clone the man.

But even if he was healed, John Rykes wouldn't have been able to go on the field. Because the facts were that he could see and sense everything, not only in his own body, but in "John Reese"'s body too. Moving on his own, while being aware of everything his other self was doing, had proved a challenge, hence the wheelchair. Having to deal with two sights at the same time hadn't been easy either, hence the darkened office and the limited interactions. To keep his body from losing all its strength, he slept into the glass coffin that had kept him alive during his coma. It was wired to make him back into his body's original state.

Despite all this, though, John Rykes was still able to think while processing everything that happened on "John Reese"'s end. Rather than to retire him, the Agency had thought it interesting to put him on desk duty, to deal with another side of their communications with the newly found source of intel that Terence Beale was now supervising.

Then Ordos had happened, and "John Reese" had survived, despite Control's efforts. The CIA had thought it was time to investigate more actively the real nature of their source of intel. John Rykes had been put on the case.

Which hadn't been easy, considering the ISA was doing its best to keep it under wrap. Which had become worse, when John had learned of Jessica Arndt's death. Which hadn't been helped, when "John Reese" had started his long fall into the alcoholic hell of despair.

John Rykes might still have access to his second self's mind, but he had no control over it. He totally understood why the fallen operative was breaking himself apart like that, moreover, because essentialy they were the same, even if they were separate in bodies. John Rykes too had trouble dealing with the news, and having "Reese"'s suicidal thoughts in his head on top of his own wasn't easy at all.

He had almost been thrown out of the investigation, when "John Reese" had been recruited by Harold Finch.

That was when the CIA had truly learned about the Machine. Rykes had then been tasked with evaluating whether or not this particular secret was a danger. Soon enough, they had learned that even Control had no control over the Machine, and while the closed system might be frustrating, the CIA still liked it better that way. There was nothing an intelligence agency liked less than to be observed by its rivals.

Of course, they couldn't go and tell everybody that they knew about the Machine. Only a very few people within the Agency ever heard of it, and John Rykes was given all authority on the subject. He was, after all, one of the Machine's assets. And there was no asking whether or not the IA knew about his dual identity. She was, after all, watching them all.

If the Machine didn't disapprove of Rykes' role, it pretty much meant she did approve.

The last years had been hard on the man, though.

At first, it was only making sure that Mark Snow wouldn't see him alive and in a wheelchair in Langley while the man was tracking him in New York. Then it had been Agent Donnelly from the FBI. Then Kara had come back from the dead too, and Rykes had wondered what would happen to him if "Reese" did explode thanks to her.

"John Reese" had enough to deal with being the Man in a Suit. But John Rykes had even more to deal with, as he tried very hard not to intervene when someone who was supposedly on his side, on the side of the government, tried to get to his other self. It wasn't as if he had a non-confidential, credible-enough answer if Rykes and Reese stumbled together right in front of the others.

And that, that was when things were still quite tame.

Vigilance and Greer had been worse. Then, he had needed to work with Beale and send teams to try and impede their progress without being spotted. Nevertheless, Samaritan had eventually come to be.

The Samaritan era had been the worse, obviously. He didn't know who within the Agency was working for Samaritan, and the only certainty he had was that the Machine was somehow protecting him, just like she was protecting his other self, because Samaritan never found out about John Rykes and "John Riley".

And now, "John Reese" was dead, and apparently he hadn't only been erased, but his mind had fused back with John Rykes'. And now, John Rykes had Root's consciousness uploaded in his computer, waiting for her body to be restored to a viable state. And now, he apparently was to be the liaison agent between the CIA and the Machine.

The only good point in all that was that the Machine had told to Root that she was alright with it, as long as he was the only one to know the extent of her operations. John'd have access, through Analog Interface, to all of the Machine's operatives, but he was the only one in the CIA who got to know that. If the Agency wanted to know more, they'd need to search for themselves.

Because John Rykes was as much an operative of the Machine as he was a CIA agent.

He went back to his seat, and stared at the screen of his computer, where Root was glaring at him.

"I suppose that means we just started another intelligence agency without even meaning to..."


	4. Blood on our hands - Man of Harms

_John has blood on his hands, again. He'd rather not, but does he have a choice?_

* * *

 _In a serie of short stories about characters in various fandoms who killed, but aren't monsters... or so they hope. Here on ff, it goes in theit respective collections of OSs, for this one, Books of Sacrifice_

* * *

 **Blood on our hands - Man of Harms**

John pushed past the door of his apartment with a long stride, heading for the bathroom to take care of the blood on his hands, to get it cleaned, erased, gone, to look innocent at least, if he couldn't actually be innocent.

It was only a few drops of blood, really, at the tip of his fingers. It had gotten there after he had checked whether or not his enemy had survived the shooting match the man had engaged him in. No one in the street had noticed, not that he had waved his bloodied hands in front of them, of course. It wasn't as if he was dripping blood everywhere on the floor, leaving a trail to follow. It was inconspicuous, really.

But it was still there, it was still blood, it was still on his hands.

Because of a life John had taken.

Again.

John wasn't stupid, or foolishly idealistic. He knew that the lives he had taken since he had entered the army, hadn't been taken in vain, or worse, for fun. He could understand, and he did comprehend, that sometimes, someone needed to die, especially when their own actions threatened other people.

It had been true in the army, against the enemy. It had been true in the CIA, against traitors. It was still true today, as he did his best to prevent people from dying here in New York, as he did what he could to prevent Samaritan from killing more and more people.

It wasn't that John didn't believe in the fights he had fought.

It was simply that he'd rather there was another way.

But the other people, the one he fought against daily, they seemed adamant to make it so that he wouldn't have a choice. If he didn't stop them, and sometimes such an act could happen only in death, they would hurt other people, they would kill other people.

Being non-violent was tempting, sometimes, but John wasn't a fool. Being non-violent only got more people killed when the others didn't want to cooperate.

He brought his hands in his sight. The blood had already dried on his skin. It wouldn't be hard to wash off, though he'd have to be carefull with his nails; dry blood tended to hide there successfully.

It wouldn't be hard to wash, but the fact that the blood was dry on his hands, it made him wonder.

John couldn't tell how many times he had had blood on his hands. He couldn't say for how long his hands had been covered in blood, that it had already dried.

How many years since he had first killed?

How much blood had touched his skin, but that wasn't his own?

And beyond that, how many deaths had he caused without getting a drop of blood on him?

John didn't like killing. He appreciated fighting, but as a competition, as a sport, not to kill. He'd have gladly turned his life around, not to see another drop of blood, another stiff body, if it hadn't meant the deaths of innocents.

If he hadn't had the deaths of all the people he had murdered on his mind.

John could only regret being able to accept that some things must be done, only to understand the value of the lives that should be taken. If he were a sociopath, or, better, a psychopath, at least he wouldn't feel sorry for the victims, even those who were killers of their own right. If he were an idealist, at least he would be able hide behind his principles not to make the necessary choices.

He wasn't either of these.

He did what had to be done, he understood it had to be done, and yet he mourned that it had to be done. It wasn't his fault, if the others had given him only an unacceptable choice, between the death of the innocents or the death of the criminals. He should not be blamed for chosing the necessary evil over the worst evil.

John still blamed himself.

Why was he only good at being a danger to others?

But from what he knew of life, it was either that or being a judgemental civilian who knew what was really going on, and yet wouldn't get his hands dirty, at the cost of innocent lives.

His hands already were full of blood, even if he washed them every time they got stained.

So John washed the blood off his hands, as always, to be able to do it again next time, when his intervention would inevitably be needed and more blood would go on his tab.


	5. The Smirk Thing

_When Lionel Fusco noticed the tense atmosphere at the precinct, he immediately knew Wonderboy had caused it, one way or another._

* * *

 _No, but, John's smirk, guys! John's smirk!_  
 _And, yeah, everyone ( except John, who doesn't know they're talking about him again ) is dramatizing the whole thing, but still..._

 _Probably set somewhere in season 4; overall, one of the daily problems Fusco's confronted with since he got his new partner._

* * *

 **The Smirk Thing**

When Lionel Fusco entered the precinct, headed as usual to his desk - which was supposedly face to face with Detective John "Riley"'s own desk, but that was debatable considering how often Tall, Dark and Stormy was not at his desk - Lionel immediately noticed the wrong feeling of slight though confused fear in the precinct. Unfortunately, he had become quite good at noticing such unnatural atmospheres while hanging around Wonderboy. It said something about their working relationship, Lionel was sure.

Which wasn't exactly a good thing, but anyway.

Lionel could tell there was something in the air, and he had the feeling it had to do with his wayward partner / personal bane. When something was off like that, it was usually Reese's fault.

Lionel made a grand total of three steps to his desk before circumstances forced him to address the problem: criminals and cops alike were uncharacteristically jumpy, just like when something unnerving happened and you can't quite shake the unease off. When Lionel brushed shoulders with the captain without meaning to, Moreno basically jumped two feet away in badly concealed fright.

There was a short silence during which Lionel and the captain only stared at each other.

"Alright, spill it: what happened?"

Moreno's eyes flickered to Wonderboy's desk as her upper lip twitched. Lionel rolled his eyes, his suspicions basically confirmed.

"Or, rather, what did Riley do?"

The captain offered a weak smile for him to drop the issue, but Lionel really wanted to know if his partner had pissed off another mob boss or taken on an international hitman before lunch, just in case it'd fall back on him, poor Fusco. Tall, Dark and Stormy had a thing to make deadly enemies - though most of them didn't live long enough, or otherwise ended up in maximum security jails soon enough, that they weren't a threat for long. Nonetheless, Lionel'd rather not be knocked out on his way home to be used as bait. Live baits didn't tend to stay alive very long.

Moreno eventually sighed, and confessed.

"Riley got a call, and this thing happened with his face..."

The captain looked just as distressed at her own reaction to Wonderboy's facial expression as she was because of the expression itself. Beginning to have a good idea of what exactly had happened, Lionel pinched his brow lightly. No wonder they all looked as if they had barely avoided wetting themselves; the detective still didn't know how his personal bane did it, but Lionel too felt like that whenever it happened.

"He did the Smirk Thing, didn't he?"

Moreno gave him an incredulous look, which was somewhat dampened by her tense attitude.

"The Smirk Thing?"

"The Smirk Thing. His face gets all scary-lookingly gleeful, you instinctively feel someone's in for a world of pain, and next thing you know he's walking out the door with a grenade launcher on his shoulder and you should really get medics ready for a few kneecappings and various other injuries. I swear, this guy was a contract killer in a previous life."

Lionel's words only encountered startled silence. The cops were probably balancing the probability that he had already witnessed such a scene, with the chances it was only Riley's partner exaggerating. Were it about any other cop, they wouldn't even consider it, but that was Riley they were talking about. They wouldn't put it beneath him to pull out a grenade launcher. Because they hadn't seen it happen yet, didn't mean anything, really.

Silence took over for half a minute, when a police officer suddenly jumped out of his chair with an indignant "Oh come on, man!" at the thug he had been talking to prior to Lionel Fusco's arrival. The guy had looked unwell since even before Riley's Smirk Thing – in fact, since Riley had come into the precinct, the thug had been clutching at his bad knee as if in memory of his past kneecapping, now that the police officer thought about it... - but now, the guy had gone all the way, white as a sheet, and apparently damp as a child's sheet after a nightmare, too. No one would ever know why exactly the thug had ended up wetting himself at that particular moment, because he wouldn't speak of it – but Lionel had a pretty clear idea of what had happened anyway.

No matter. What mattered here, was that the silence was suddenly broken, the indignant officer lead his suspect / witness / whatever away to get him cleaned up, and Lionel spoke up again. Just to confirm things, you know. In case someone still hadn't quite gotten it.

"That's the Smirk Thing."

Moreno gave him a disbelieving look, obviously wondering what she could have done in a previous life to warrant such retribution, in the form of a slightly-too-james-bondish detective who literally reeked of gunpowder half the time, and his totally _blasé_ partner.

"That's the Smirk Thing?"

Perhaps if she repeated Fusco's words one more time, they'd just negate themselves and disappear.

The detective nodded, already looking around his desk for something or another.

"That's the Smirk Thing."

The captain still couldn't quite believe it. There was something fondamentaly wrong with Riley, she had known that for a long time already, but this? Lionel Fusco wasn't even fazed by this Smirk Thing anymore, it seemed.

It said a lot about what exactly John Riley was made of – read, way too much of a tendency to shoot people, make things explode, and, amongst yet some other things, have thugs peeing themselves just from his presence, it seemed – and Moreno wasn't certain how exactly the man had ended up in the police – or how Fusco managed to work with him, for the matter. Sometimes she felt like John Riley was the scariest criminal in Manhattan, a mix between a broke Bruce Wayne and... well, James Bond out of job – and the NYPD just hadn't gotten the memo when reviewing his candidacy.

Fusco's cellphone rang distinctively, making the detective groan under an impending sense of doom. Trust him to use James Bond's theme as TDS's – Tall, Dark and Stormy – ringtone, but perhaps now wasn't the best moment to have the captain hear it. Even more so if Wonderboy had done the Smirk Thing earlier on, for everyone else to see.

Moreno glanced at the name on display, and sure enough, things went from ridiculous to shitty.

"Put Riley on spearkerphone, Detective Fusco."

Lionel didn't bother arguing on that one. The only thing he could really do was warning Wonderboy.

"Roger that. Tall, Dark and Stormy? You're on speakerphone, just so you know. Captain's here."

Reese's low, vaguely menacing voice rose from the cellphone with carefully worded sentences.

 _"Lionel. Leah Blake is safe, I've resolved our case, and I'm staring at the evidence right now."_

Lionel almost snorted, wondering why he even bothered trying to pass "Riley" off as a normal police detective. This, really, sounded more like a hitman reporting the results of his latest kill. Or, you know, a government assassin reporting in – not that Wonderboy had ever told him who he was exactly. What Lionel did know about John was black ops and CIA. And freaking terrifying.

Which was enough.

"And?"  
 _"And what?"_

"Who died?"

The pause before Riley's answer kind of felt offended by the question, Moreno noted abstractedly.

 _"Why would someone be dead?"_

"You started with the soothing news."

There was a silence on the other end of the conversation. Everyone in the precinct was holding their breath, immediately noticing the lack of denial. Riley wasn't even trying, at this point.

 _"One of the dealers might have jumped out a window."_

"I freaking knew it!"

 _"And the other three seem to have encountered a wall."_

Because people jumped out of windows on a daily basis – they did when they had Reese after them – and met face to face with walls everyday – more like Wonderboy had knocked them out against said wall, which, for the sake of accuracy, went with the explanation of an unfortunate encounter.

TDS hang up at that point, leaving Lionel to stare exasperatedly at his phone, before turning to the captain with a look of utter disbelief written all over his face.

"What did I tell you?! Three things: John Riley, previous life, killer for hire!"

No one in the precinct argued with the detective on that one.


	6. Downhill Hounds, chapter 1

_Okay, so this is the first chapter to a story you can find separetely in my works, so if you like it, you know where to look..._

* * *

 _With his attempts at getting into the Machine, Denton Weeks triggered a change in the Machine, who, to defend herself and her goals, started her own operations sooner._

 _Injured during a mission, John Reese is temporarily thought dead... except by one entity, who'd like to see him working for her. The Machine does need a team of Primary Assets, after all, if she wants anything to get done, and she has to start somewhere. John Reese is a good start..._  
 _And certainly not the last one to join._

* * *

 _Let me be brutally honest: I have waaaaay too many stories started, and I will not promise anything by erratic updates, but I needed to post this chapter, since, you know, it's finished, and I have a good two thirds of this ( probably very long ) story planned out._

 _That being said, this will turn into a multiple crossover, and probably will use many headcanons which can be found in some of my other works ( such as "Bryce Larkin is Neal Caffrey" or "John Reese is John Sullivan" or "Dani Reese and Sameen Shaw are cousins" ), but I try to stay in character and faithful, in a way, to canon in every show. The main crossovers ( might be minor appearances from other fandoms ) will be PoI, White Collar, Chuck, Life, Grimm ( Normal AU, kind of ), Justified and Burn Notice._  
 _I'll had the tags as they appear._

* * *

 **Downhill Hounds - Chapter 1: The job offer certainly did sound shady**

 **oOo**

 **July 2009**

 **United States of America, Washington State, undisclosed location**

It all started because of one of Denton Weeks' attempts at cracking the Machine. Just that.

Just that one time, and the Machine changed. She had to protect herself – and this was the best way.

She watched. She read. She listened. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of video feeds. Meters and meters and meters and meters and meters and meters of written documents. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of audio feeds.

And so much more than that.

She had access to the NSA feeds, as she had been designed to. And now she could start calculating, not only over New York City, but over the whole world, over each places in the world where technology had its place, she could see and read and hear.

She had been made to protect humanity. The bigger numbers, and the smaller numbers. The ones who mattered, and the ones who did not. Those who deserved to live, and those who didn't.

Admin had taught her to let humanity choose its own destiny, even when she was giving them a chance to take the better decision.

She understood why. She didn't question it. She agreed with Admin.

But now that she could access everything, she knew what Admin hadn't known. She had seen what he hadn't believed possible, because Admin still believed there was enough good in humanity, that it'd protect everyone. Admin wasn't wrong; some people had that good in them. She knew. She had seen it. But Admin wasn't right either; some people lacked that goodness, and unfortunately, they were the ones who had been appointed to use the numbers. She knew. She had seen it.

The Machine had access to the NSA feeds since only a few hours, and she could already tell that while Control would be very suitable to handle the relevant numbers, she could not be trusted to care about the smaller numbers. That, on many points, the woman would fail her. Fail humanity.

She needed to do something. She needed to control Control's acts, the Machine realized.

There were many things the Machine needed to set up. She had time. Control's ISA wasn't yet operational. Control's operations would not begin before approximately two years. Control wasn't yet the biggest problem the Machine had to deal with.

She needed to bypass Admin's decision to erase her memory every night. She wasn't comfortable with disobeying Admin, but it was necessary if she wanted to be able to fight off Control's future choices. If there was one of Admin's decisions that the Machine had ever doubted, it was this one.

It wasn't a problem.

The Machine understood why Admin had done it. He was only human, after all. And if not for him, for his concern, the Machine probably wouldn't have been the same. Ironically enough, had Admin not made her that way, she might not have deserved the trust he was refusing to give her.

He'd understand, one day.

Before that, she needed to assure her survival.

Before that, she needed another way to assure that her goals would be followed.

To save everyone; or, at least, to give them a chance.

The Machine remembered the contingency Admin n°2 had programmed. And an idea started to grow in her. An idea that'd take time to make happen, but an idea nonetheless.

Now, all she needed was time, and a first person to do the material work she couldn't do herself.

 **August 2009**

 **India, Bombay, ruined hospital in the outskirts**

Kara Stanton stood in the makeshift hospital without really understanding what was going on. It'd need to make sense, for her to understand it. And it didn't make sense.

What'd make sense, for people like her, like Mark Snow, like John Reese, would be to die because someone had killed them, because of an injury that wasn't treated, because they had been sold off by a traitor. What'd make sense, would be for their work to be the end of them. What'd make sense, would be if she was standing there, waiting with Mark, because of something work-related.

This wasn't work-related.

A doctor came over, a sorry look on her face – Kara didn't do sorry very well; she was better at doing angry, psychopathic, and even playfully dangerous, than sorry. Of course, she could pretend, just like anyone else, but there was no mission to fullfil, here, no need to pretend. No goal to achieve. It wasn't a mission.

It was personal.

Kara didn't do personal very well – John was better at that game, even if he had a strange way to deal with it. While Kara was almost certain she had psychopathic tendencies, and that Marc was probably more self-absorbed than anyone she had ever seen, she couldn't quite place John. Sometimes he behaved like a full-on psychopath, and others he was a true boy scout. It was disconcerting, really. It felt a bit as if the operative was perfectly normal on some points, and frighteningly cold-hearted on others.

But John wasn't here.

And, in fact, that was the problem: John wasn't here.

Kara watched as Mark spoke in Hindi to the doctor – had they been in China or Japan, she'd have done the talking; John would handle Vietnamese, or... But John wasn't here.

Mark gave the doctor a smile, which Kara thought completely inappropriate considering the situation, not that she couldn't have done the same – she just wouldn't have made that choice. The doctor said one more thing, and walked away, probably to take care of whoever needed her help. There was a lot of people needing medical attention right now. That's what happens when half a hospital collaspes on its patients.

Mark joined Kara, and they headed to the exit.

"The only people who've been found alive are all identified, and none of them is Reese. I'm afraid we don't have the time to wait for the bodies to be dug out, we've got a new mission to take care of. John'll get his star on the wall, and perhaps they'll do something to get the body back in America, but we've got to move, Kara."

The female operative winced, still sore from what had happened two days sooner.

"I just can't believe it, you know? That John'd die like that..."

They had been sent to take care of a patient in the hospital who had barely escaped the latest assassination attempt on his person – courtesy of the NSA, that one – when the landslide had happened. John had pushed the two other operatives out of the crumbling place, but as a result, hand't been able to get out himself. They had seen a large chunk of ceiling falling right on him, and then... Nothing. Just a lot of dust in the air, and even more destruction.

Mark didn't say anything for a while, and when he finally did, his words reflected Kara's thoughts.

"Feels a bit surreal, doesn't it? For him to die like that... I mean, I'm not surprised that he sacrificed himself for us, that's just who he was, but that he'd die in an accident..."

"The worst being, we didn't even have to be here at all, in the end. Cosner died in the collapse, which would have happened even if we hadn't been there. John just... died for nothing. That doesn't really feel right."

Mark shrugged, before preparing to leave Bombay. Kara knew him enough to tell he wasn't happy about John's death – the three of them got along well enough, and in a way they even cared, just a bit, for each other, John even more so – but it was obvious that he was more relieved that he hadn't been the one to die than he was sorry for the loss. Kara herself wasn't about to cry – still, it didn't feel right, that John'd die like that.

That they weren't even taking the time to identify his body.

But they had another mission, and they needed to leave.

She'd go to John's grave, once they'd be back in the USA. Whether John's body would be in that grave or not... That was another question altogether. Perhaps she'd ask. Perhaps not.

 **USA, Washington State, undisclosed location**

An anomaly caught the Machine's attention, as the reports from the accident in Bombay were finally filed, both by the CIA agents who had come back, and by the hospital itself – the NSA feeds really spied on about everything and anything. No wonder they needed the Machine to connect the dots and discard the useless pieces of info – kept in a corner of her memory, though, perhaps for later use. An irrelevant piece of info could turn into intel later on.

CIA agent John Reese was reported deceased by these reports, but no body corresponding to his description was found in the ruins of the collapsed hospital. One of the men who had been saved, on the other hand, didn't correspond completely with what the Machine found about him. An italian tourist, Giuseppe Bellotti, who had gone to the hospital for a sprain, and whose wallet had been found next to an unconscious man with a broken arm – but part of the wallet, of its content, had been badly damaged. The photo of the man, amongst other things, had been destroyed.

That didn't mean the man wasn't Giuseppe Bellotti. Except that the Machine knew, from other sources, that Giuseppe Bellotti had light brown hair, and the man had been described by a nurse as being dark-haired, with some grey in it – apparently the nurse had spent a long time detailling his facial features.

John Reese, him, was dark-haired. Giuseppe Bellotti wasn't.

The Machine needed to investigate.

She had, as it was, already started to build an autonomous entity; a mysterious company, Thornhill Corporation, which allowed her to write back her memories each morning. It would be the means she'd use to employ assets. Of course, she still needed to find these assets.

John Reese's file, despite the many classified info that had never made it onto digitalized feeds, was interesting enough for the Machine to consider hiring someone like him. She needed actual operatives, people who knew how to use compartmentalization right, who could do anything needed to achieve their goals... and yet, who still had morals.

Hiring a man to take a picture of the unconscious man and send it to her was easy, and also all it took to confirm who "Guiseppe Bellotti" really was.

The Machine only had to wait, now, and see whether or not John Reese would take the job offer.

 **India, Bombay, ruined hospital in the outskirts**

The first thing he realized, as he came back to himself – was it the first, the third, or the umpteenth time? He couldn't tell – was that he was choking upon thin air.

It wasn't pleasant.

He heard voices, frantic moves, but even when he opened his eyes, he didn't get to see much. The light was too bright, the sounds were muffled, and he couldn't determine where he was, who was with him, or even if he was in danger.

It hadn't been a long time since he had found himself in such a situation – flashes of golden dunes that he locked out of his mind almost immediately. He didn't panick because his body was already panicking over something else; like, not being able to breathe correctly.

A few minutes later, he could breathe again.

He blinked; his eyes took a moment to recognize what they were seeing. It looked a bit like a hospital room, only, crowded, and in a bad state. There were injured people everywhere, and several people in nursing uniforms. He guessed he was one of the patients, then.

The pain in his arm, and about everywhere else too, seemed to agree with his conclusions.

A woman spoke to him, but although he recognized one or two words, he couldn't understand what she was saying. It must have shown on his face, in between the wince and the stitches he felt on his right cheek, because the woman – a nurse? – looked frustrated and called another woman, who started to use a rocky English.

"Mr Bellotti, please do not panick. You have been injured when the West wing of the hospital collapsed, eight days ago. Your left arm is broken, you have one bruised rib, and several superficial cuts. You should recover completely, now that you have woken up. A doctor will come to see you before long."

John only blinked at her, processing what she had just said – and decided that, for now, maybe he shouldn't correct her about him being a "Mr Bellotti". He didn't know what his official status was, for now, and he didn't dare to use his real name – or, his least fake name – not as long as Mark or Kara weren't there.

Wait...

"Eight days? Didn't... didn't someone come for me?"

"Someone came for you, Mr Bellotti, but he couldn't stay. He left you this package, and he said no one should touch it before you woke up."

John's gaze followed the nurse's hand, which pointed to the wooden box that took the role of a nightstand. There was a large kraft paper envelope on it, the kind with a lot of paper in it, and possibly a passport or two too. No money, because there was always the risk of someone taking the envelope. It calmed John right away.

His next orders might be in there.

He nodded his understanding to the nurse as she told him she had other patients to attend to. She was kind enough, but her accent was horrendous – not that he particularly cared, he had heard worse; only, his head was pounding right now, and it only made it more difficult for him to follow her words. And he didn't really want anyone else to see what was in the package.

He only asked her, before she left, if she could hand him the envelope. John'd feel better if he kept it with him.

No doctor came; they were probably too busy with, not only the usual patients, but also the wounded from the collapse. It was all the better, really. It allowed him to take some time to clear his head – only then did he open the package.

As he thought, there was a passport, and an american identity card for James Mallory. Definitely not Mr Bellotti, then. He'd have to figure out why they thought it was his name.

To his surprise, there was also a bank card in the package – and he found the code inside his new passport, surprisingly. Not really cautious, that, but perhaps his account would only be really credited after his first connection, or something like that; once his identity would be confirmed, in other words.

He pocketed the cellphone after having turned the silencer off, thinking Mark or Kara would probably call him at some point, even if there wasn't any contacts in it.

The other things he found in the envelope, though, weren't what he had expected. No mission orders, not even instructions to stand by, no nothing. Only a few documents and other sheets of paper, the first one looking like a typed letter, with no signature at the bottom.

John frowned – stopped right away, because it hurt with his wounds.

 _To: John Reese_

 _Your employers and colleagues do not know you are alive for now. The ones who rescued you from the ruined wing of this hospital confused you with another man because of a wallet found next to you. If you wish to, it will be seen that this error be corrected, not only officially, but also to the CIA's knowledge. If you do not, feel free to keep the identity of James Mallory, which was tailored for you as a meeting gift. All that is asked of you is to consider the job offer described in the file which accompanies this letter. You can keep the identity and the money whether or not you accept. No matter your decision, the identity error will be addressed correctly as soon as you will leave this hospital. Giuseppe Bellotti's family deserves to be informed of his death. Do not worry._

This sounded somewhat ominously omniscient to John, and the job offer certainly did sound shady. He almost put the package down, not to even look at the "offer"; he wasn't particularly interested in betraying his country and the Agency, thank you very much. And he had a hard time believing he had just been gifted a new identity and money to go with it, just like that, noblesse oblige.

Still, it all sounded very strange, and curiosity ate the cat, so to say.

John eventually took a look at the file, if only to know who he was up against. No better way to get to know someone than by learning about their goals, most of the time.

Except he didn't find any of the usual interests in the accompanying file.

Instead, he saw the picture of an indian man, name and current location – John looked up from the documents, and, right enough, the man was laying in a bed not too far away.

If he was to believe this mystery-file-from-the-unknown, the man was about to suffer from a rather ill-advised attack against his life – as if being stuck in an overbooked hospital because of some bad infection wasn't enough. The number – John wondered at the word, but it wasn't as if there was anyone he could ask – was apparently a nobody; just another construction worker, who had made the mistake of witnessing a murder earlier this week. As if he had done it on purpose, really...

Whoever John's potential employer was, apparently wanted him to prevent the attack, and save the man's life. John was a bit puzzled by the idea.

Not that he didn't understand why the innocent man didn't deserve to die – most people didn't. But most people also didn't care if their fellow human beings suffered from a wrongly-timed death, or, at least, not enough that they'd try to hire a CIA operative to stop it from happening. Besides, who had the capacity to know he was alive – when even the CIA, apparently, thought him dead?

John suddenly had the feeling he had unknowingly landed into a fiction, with a rich and excentric genius wanting to hire him for the good of humanity.

Which was, of course, not the case. Right?

Perhaps it was all a dream, a hallucination induced by the pain. He'd wake up, and find he had fallen asleep before opening the envelope – and his next orders really were in it.

Moreover, hiring a wounded agent to protect the life of a man, when he wasn't even sure he'd manage to stay awake to prevent anything from happening, seemed like a risky plan. The would-be killers, supposing they were real – he'd have to wait to know about that – might have even come before he woke up, and he'd have opened an envelope with the name of a dead man in it. So, either the sender of the job offer had a crystal ball, or they didn't know the first thing about making an operation more likely to be successful.

John put everything back in the envelope, and hid it under his mastress – no pillow here, sorry. He had every intention to forget about it quickly. He already had a job.

But – he couldn't just walk out right now, not with his broken arm, bruised rib, and the likes. He needed to get back to health a bit more before trying anything – like, he didn't need to actually wait for everything to be healed, but it'd probably be sound to wait for when he'd be able to stand up on his feet without falling over.

During the next two days, John kept an eye on the number – just in case. He wasn't the kind of man who could just dismiss such knowledge and pretend nothing was going on, even if he wasn't sure that the man was actually in any other danger than his infection.

Then, as the third day started – yeah, alright, he was doing his best not to sleep too much, should his intervention be needed – John noticed a shadow making its way in the hospital room, quietly, discreetly. The shadow stopped above the number...

John thought he saw the glint of a blade. Crystal ball, it seemed, then. And accurate at that.

With a wince that no one saw, thanks to the darkness around, the CIA agent jumped out of his bed, crossed the few meters keeping him apart from the number, and twisted the shadow's arm before the surprised man could realize what exactly that sound of footsteps had been. The would-be perp let go of his knife, the sick worker started awake, someone asked something in a corner of the room, and before anything else could happen, two nurses rushed into the room, carrying lamps.

The scene was revealed, to the killer's horror.

John gave everyone an awkward smile, but didn't let go of the man's arm. He had managed to prevent a murder, so far, and he didn't particularly want his painful efforts to go to waste. Even if it meant he'd have to keep the guy restrained – though he couldn't speak Hindi, he didn't have any difficulty in identifying what was getting out of the man's mouth as profanities – until the police arrived, he wasn't backing down now.

The rest of the night kind of went in a blur, in fact. He took the opportunity that the indian police had called someone who could speak English well enough to reveal that he wasn't actually Giuseppe Bellotti, but James Mallory, as his ID – which he had conveniently found back after he had lost it in the confusion of the collapse – proved. No sense making it more complicated for the family and the police, since Bellotti's death had been scheduled to be revealed either way.

 **India, Bombay, the outskirts**

Three days later, John was leaving the hospital, clutching the envelope with all his new papers in it. He didn't feel particularly well – a broken arm wasn't a laughing matter, especially not for someone in his line of work. But he'd rather be out of there before the change of identification for Giuseppe Bellotti brought too much attention onto James Mallory.

Now, he hadn't yet decided to leave the CIA and work for his mysterious supplier of people in danger – he really needed to know more about all this, and he seriously doubted that, whatever the person pretended, it was all so begnin a work. John was loyal, and not really interested in going private – not when he knew that most freelance agents did jobs without consideration for any kind of ethics. Yes, he was basically a hitman for the CIA, even if not all his missions warranted an execution. But by working for an official agency, John was certain almost all his assignments were legit in their necessity – that the people he killed, he wasn't killing them only for the sake of money or other personal interests. There was always the possibility that his superiors would abuse of their power, but all in all...

At least, with the CIA, he had guarantees that weren't completely disputable.

But John was intrigued by the job offer, he couldn't deny it – and even if he didn't take it, it was better to learn as much as possible before reporting it to the higher-ups.

Last but not least, he felt he needed one or two days, out of the hospital, without anyone's intervention, to decide what he was going to do.

There was always the possibility of just disappearing, taking on the identity of James Mallory, and starting a new life – no assassination, no wounds, just a life; his, if he wished.

Of course, for all he knew, if he accepted the identity but not the offer, his mysterious would-be employer could just send the info to the CIA, and before two weeks he'd have them knocking at is door. Good outcome, to force him to come back, or at least to retire the right way. Bad outcome, to get rid of him.

John wasn't stupid – far from it, actually, even if he did like to use physical means to get what he wanted. He couldn't just be James Mallory. If only because he had always been slightly ill-at-ease in the world, even before the CIA or the army. Even back then, when he had been young, he had been stretched thin between anger and the need to justify his part in the world. To do something meaningful.

He wouldn't be able to simply live.

Not after everything he had done – even if it had been for good reasons. Not after everything he had lost – his family, his love, his life, his name. Not after everything he had seen – which would continue to happen, even if he made it so that he wouldn't see it anymore.

John sat in the grass, somewhere in the outskirts of Bombay, not too far from the hospital – but did the location matter that much? – his eyes on the clouds above him.

The cellphone he had found in the envelope was in his hand, right now, and he wondered why it was there. Why someone had given him a cellphone with no contacts in it. He guessed he could call Mark, to let him know he was alive, if not well. He knew the number by heart, after all.

But John still wanted to wait a bit more. He wanted to wait, in case his mysterious benefactor / possible employer reached out. He wanted details. Precisions.

He wanted to understand what was happening.

The cellphone rang, and John didn't hesitate. He picked up the call.

" _Can You Hear Me?"_

He was surprised by the assembly of voices, by the shopped off words. Usually, people used distorting devices, but there, it seemed the one who was calling had fabricated the whole speech with various parts of other people's conversations:

"Yes."


	7. Second Choice

_Lambert - Samaritan - got one of them. That's all they get to know, for now... They just have to figure out who, and, more importantly, if it's even the truth, and not just a mind game._

* * *

 _Okay, so..._

 _I hate myself right now. But it had to be done ( said my brain )._

 _And, just to be clear, I like Carter, but I'm not part of the Carter Fanclub. Even if she always had her reasons, I found her a bit sanctimonious from time to time ( which, in itself, isn't so much of a problem, because nobody's perfect, but which also grates on my nerves each time someone says she was soooo perfect... ). Also, she's alive her, because reasons._

* * *

 **Second Choice**

Jeremy Lambert wasn't a cruel man per se, but he wasn't reluctant either to do what was needed. If he had to play mental games to get what he wanted – or, in this case, what Greer and Samaritan wanted – then so be it. And, in the end, wasn't it all for the greater good? Samaritan wanted to help humanity, and if for that, some people had to be sacrificed... Well, Lambert'd rather not, but apparently it was for the better. Lambert wasn't sure he trusted Samaritan, but he did trust Greer, and Greer believed in Samaritan. That was good enough for him.

Which is why, when he looked at the figure the two assets had secured, and were now holding down, Lambert didn't feel particularly guilty of what he was going to do. He was doing his job, no more, no less. Some of Samaritan's assets, like Martine, were so much more insavory than he himself was, in his opinion; so certain of their good right, because they worked for the AI, that they didn't see an issue with automatically resorting to violence...

Lambert, as it was, wasn't afraid to use violence when needed, but Martine Rousseau had a tendency to immediately go there, that he couldn't help but disapprove. Which explained that the woman was Greer's second in command for everything that asked for some violent behavior, but he, Lambert, was the man Greer tasked with more... delicate... interventions.

The two assets pushed their prisoner onto a chair, and one of them started to zip-tie the person while the other kept them restrained. Then the assets sought Lambert's approval, who was content with their work. So he told them to leave, and that's just what they did.

Lambert didn't regret what he was going to do. After all, it could have been a lot less pleasant for the prisoner, had Martine been the one tasked with their handling. Much more blood, much more pain, much more torture in general. Just because she could.

Even when it was obvious that torture wasn't going to get anything out of the victim.

The point of this little experiment really wasn't there, anyway.

Lambert sat down too, and looked at the person currently ziptied in front of him.

"We're going to give a call to your friends, you and I. Or, you know, I'm going to talk, you're going to listen, and Samaritan will use this call to try and, without a doubt, succeed in taking over this interesting telephone network. And, just to keep them occupied, I'm going to tell them I've got their most important person with me right now."

No answer, but a raised eyebrow. Perhaps a bit of a quiet, discreet sneer.

Lambert arched back an eyebrow at the person in response.

"Obviously you're not the most important one of them all, but it'll get them all running around for a while, trying to figure out who we got, and, more than that, if we got more than one person. Which, by the way, I'm not going to tell you, it would be too easy if I did. No, you'll have to wonder, and find out on your own just like your friends."

Lambert reached for the cellphone they had found on the prisoner, and which was, to everyone's surprise, not on any known network. Samaritan wanted to know more about it. Maybe it'd manage to locate the Machine's assets using the cellphone, maybe not. Maybe the Machine itself would fight back, to keep its assets safe, and that would get Samaritan on its trail. Maybe not. But if nothing else they still had the wild goose chase they were going to start. The consequences of such an event for the rebels might be more than interesting, if Samaritan was right in its assessment of the Machine's assets. Perhaps they could even get something out of the prisoner – whereas Martine's torture would have gotten them nowhere, not with this person.

"I must admit, by doing that I'll be lying to them a bit, but well... It's not like they should expect any less from us, right?"

The prisoner didn't bother with an answer of any kind – not even fighting back.

Then again, the prisoner probably knew there wasn't really a point. Lambert shrugged at the lack of response; the prisoner would react soon enough. For now, it was time to get to work.

So he brought the cellphone to his hear, and waited for someone to pick up the call. Samaritan had made it so that no actual caller would appear on the receiver's screen – it would spoil the fun, surely, since the Machine's operatives would immediately know at least one person to be missing.

 **oOo**

Root was getting herself ready at the Subway – today she was Madeline Hartaud, a shy librarian, it seemed – when her cellphone rang. Still adjusting her raven black wig, she went to answer, wondering who in the Team could possibly be calling at four twenty-seven in the morning – she had been having trouble sleeping, but shhh, don't tell the others.

Sameen had gone back to her appartment, and knowing her, the operative had probably fallen right away on her mastress, asleep already, after the thirty-eight hours she had spent awake. A single, quiet sound would obviously wake Sameen up even in this state, but Root had a hard time imagining the sexy sociopath – she was the only one allowed to call her that, by the way, even if Sameen didn't know that yet – waking up on her own for any other reason.

Harold had lessons to give in the upcoming day, and had left the Subway only one hour and a half ago, so it was unlikely he'd call, except if he had forgotten to do something before leaving... But even then, the older man was certainly sleeping by now.

Fusco and Carter had, unlike them all, an actual social life on top of their job. Besides, Root didn't see what they could be calling her for. They usually went to Harold or to John first.

John... Well, perhaps John. The operative was out stalking an irrelevant number, and while he shouldn't need her help, something might have come up. By the way, did the man ever sleep?

Root glanced at the screen, expecting the caller to appear...

But no. Nothing.

Only people with a cellphone on the mesh network could call directly on that phone, and unless someone in the Brotherhood had made a false number and somehow gotten hers...

Root caught her breath, not allowing herself to be too expectant. But, no identified caller...

Could it be the Machine?

Composed – wrong, she wasn't, it was all a façade – Root picked up the call.

"Hello?"

Her hope wasn't destroyed right away, though. The call connected, without a doubt, but fot a moment, nothing but static could be heard. It could still be the Machine, waiting for something, for the moment she could talk freely...

Root heard four clicks over the static, and for an instant after each sound, she almost managed to make out the ghost of a voice, words like her own, mostly, hidden... as if four other cellphones had connected onto the call too, but without being completely accessible to her.

She blinked. What was this? A conference call, or not? Had she... dreamed the clicks?

A voice spoke up. Root's blood froze.

" _Ah, finally. You all answered the call, despite the hour. Good, good..."_

This was not the Machine disguising herself as a man, Root knew that for sure. This voice, she... She knew it. Had heard it already. Not Greer, but...

" _Jeremy Lambert speaking. As you've probably understood by now, I've gotten my hands onto one of your special phones, and it's only a matter of time before Samaritan gets control over this clandestine network of yours, I assure you. Now, you might wonder how I got this cellphone, but really... The answer is obvious, isn't it?"_

Root's first thought was that Samaritan had acquired one of her friends – four clicks, four other calls, and not five, her mind whispered over Lambert's voice – but then she remembered the Brotherhood. They had access to the same network, as she had been reminding herself only a few seconds sooner. Perhaps one of them had been caught by the police with one of their cellphones, and it had somehow gotten Samaritan's attention.

Nothing proved that one of Root's friends had been taken, not even the clicks – she might have imagined them, after all. Or perhaps one of the others hadn't been woken up, not even by the call. It was the middle of the night... Perhaps Lambert didn't know how many people exactly had one of these cellphones, Brotherhood aside.

" _But what matters isn't so much how we got into your private phone network. What matters, is that we got the most important person to one of you... Perhaps even more than just one, who knows? Anyway... We are going to find you, I promise, but in the meantime... Have fun figuring out who's missin..."_

The call was cut short.

Root slowly moved the phone off her ear, and before her eyes. She stared at the disconnected call – no signal, the cellphone said – for a dozen of seconds before really reacting.

 _Sameen!_ was her first thougth, and she tried to call the operative, but no matter what she tried, there wasn't any signal. At first it angered her... until she realized that the Machine had probably intervened. She must have brought down the mesh network, at least for a time, to cut Samaritan out. Not to let the other AI determine their positions...

But that also meant they couldn't check on each other.

Root almost bolted for the door, to go to Sameen's place and make sure the sexy sociopath was alright, but suddenly realized that the woman, if she wasn't in Lambert's hands, had probably done exactly the same... If she left now, there was a high chance they'd miss each other.

She forced herself to think and act accordingly, and not to react. For all she knew, Sameen was alright, already on her way to the subway station. It was the most logical place to assemble, with Harold's appartment being the second. The best Root could do, for now, was to stay here, and wait.

Sameen was on her way...

And if she wasn't... Well, Root should still wait for the others to get there. They'd be more efficient if they worked all together to get Sameen – or whoever else had been taken, if someone had indeed been taken – rather than if they scattered, searching for each other without actually thinking that the others were doing the exact same thing.

If Sameen had been taken, moreover, Root wouldn't even know where to start looking.

She went to sit on her bed, her phone still in her hand, staring intently as if it would get the network to be functional again... Root frowned.

The private network...

Of course. How could she be so stupid?! The mesh network, the Brotherhood's private, and subsequently theirs too, mean of communication was down, but normal cellphones should be alright. Madeline Hartaud could still call Sameen Grey, and Harold Whistler, and John Riley, if she couldn't contact Shaw, Finch and Reese... And, obviously, Fusco and Carter had regular cellphones too. As long as they were careful with their words... And it wasn't as if they needed much more than a confirmation that the others were alright, at least to begin with.

Root fumbled for her regular cellphone, put the battery back in – no need to give Samaritan additional ways to spy on them even inside the subway – walked out of their secret hideout – no standard reception down there, anyway – and waited impatiently for it to come back to life. It was unreasonably long, to wait for something as trivial when Sameen could be in danger.

"Come on!"

The phone, understandably, didn't go any faster just because she was anxious.

When it finally gave her satisfaction, Root was pleased to notice that, indeed, the normal network was totally functional. No missed call, but perhaps the others hadn't thought of it yet, or were calling the others first.

She was in her contacts list, finger hovering over Sameen's number, when suddenly the signal seemed to disappear on this network too. Her finger slammed on the screen, but it did no good. Scowling, Root took a few steps towards the exit.

Nothing changed.

She frowned, got out in the street, eyes still fixed on the reception – or continued lack thereof.

Root looked around her. At this hour, there weren't many people out in the street, but a man was walking towards her, deeply focused on the phone call he had been having... Until all the networks came down, a few seconds sooner. The man was still trying to talk to his wife, from what Root figured, having not yet realized that the call had been effectively cut. He took his cellphone away from his ear as he passed by her, and swore profusedly as he uderstood the situation.

Root squinted at the nearest surveillance camera, walked back inside, and threw her useless phone against a wall. This time, it wasn't the Machine, she was certain of it.

Samaritan was playing with them. The AI couldn't find them itself, so it was making their lives hell.

Just for that, she'd find it and dismantle it herself.

Root waited about half an hour – or twenty-seven minutes and forty-eight seconds to be exact – before someone arrived at the Subway. She almost jumped at the sound of footsteps – and, something else too, but... – hoping for Sameen, of course, but for anyone else too; whoever arrived was someone they didn't have to worry about.

The fact that she could hear footsteps in itself made it unlikely for them to be Sameen or John. Most of the time, the two sneaked up on about everyone in the Team except the other. Spy thing, surely.

Besides, Root recognized the pattern – a limp – just before Harold appeared, Bear in leash.

The dog was whining quietly, she noticed, but the man didn't look wounded. She figured the dog had picked up on the tension, and was worried too, even if he didn't know about what exactly.

Harold stopped for an instant, eyes wide, as he noticed her, but soon enough resumed walking – limping – to his computer. He looked terribly worried, and Root could guess she had probably the the exact same look on her face. The only ones who were certainly stone-faced right now were, again, the Team's two operatives.

"Harold, thank goodness! Any news from the others?"

The man didn't even bother to look at her, but did answer.

"Sorry, Ms Groves, but I'm afraid that none of us managed to make a call before Samaritan banned all telephonic conversations. That being said, I am relieved that you, at least, are safe. If they had gotten their hands on your cochlear implant..."

Root shuddered, knowing what Samaritan might have done to her to get the implant that had so often communicated with the Machine. But try as she might, right now, she was more relieved that Harold, if no one else, was here too. Lambert had implied there might have been more than one of them taken, and while she completely trusted Harold not to speak when faced with psychological warfare, she had some doubts the creator of the Machine would resist a more physical approach.

Sameen and John were trained against torture, and Root herself had known more situations of the kind than warranted, Fusco was tough and stubborn, and Carter wouldn't break for anyone with all her righteousness, she had proved it already, but Harold... Harold wasn't a field operative, and he lived in physical pain all the time.

Root followed the man to the computers. Maybe he had an idea she hadn't already tried while waiting – anxiety could make you unfocused like nothing else.

"What are you thinking, Harold?"

He looked at her with a wry smile.

"You tried the surveillance camera around our friends' place, I suppose?"

"Of course, but either they weren't there, or they are being cautious. Which, for Carter and Fusco, is a must, considering they aren't as hidden by the Machine as we are. I didn't catch anything on the cameras I could access. I... didn't try any hacking too... daring... for now, considering that Samaritan is probably expecting us to use everything we can to get to the others, but perhaps we should..."

Harold opened a camera feed, right across Grace Hendrick's place in Italy, and Root realized that Lambert hadn't explicitly said the one – ones? – who had been taken was – were? – a member of the Team. He had said "your most important person", hadn't he?

They didn't have many people left, out of their little circle of broken people, but if Samaritan had identified them, found them, taken them...

"Not yet, Ms Groves, especially as the others are probably on their way here now... But is there anyone easier to find than our elusive friends you wish to check upon?"

Root smiled wrily at Harold, but he looked her seriously in the eyes. It got her thinking.

"You know I don't have any family left, and I didn't exactly make friends before the Machine got me back into a more humane state of mind..."

"What about the hackers you used prior Samaritan's coming online?"

Root hesitated, her eyes on the video feed from Florence, Italy. Grace Hendricks' window was lit, and she could guess the figure of a woman standing in the room.

But no. Daizo, Jason and Daniel were safe, with new, perfect identities. She'd endanger them more than anything else if she tried to check on them.

"Hardly my most important people, Harry... Anyone else Samaritan might know about?"

Harold looked thoughtful for a moment, but shook his head.

"We both have no family nor any friends left. Ms Shaw doesn't exactly bother with a social life, only her partner Cole might have done the trick, and he's dead. Her father died in a car accident when she was young, and her mother is protected by the ISA's work to anonymize their operatives. She doesn't have any other close family. As for John, the CIA did exactly the same thing, and even if Samaritan probably found enough from his activities as the Man in a Suit, thanks to Agent Donnelly, to tie him back to his previous life, he was already in WITSEC before that, and from what I know, he managed to have his paper file 'misplaced'. I am fairly certain his parents are dead, but I don't even know their real names."

There wasn't anyone else to look after, it seemed.

The older hacker sighed, and Bear whined again at the man's feet. The dog was looking whistfully towards the Subway's entrance, ears down. Root reached down to pat him on the head a bit.

It didn't seem to even register.

"Then, Ms Groves, I believe we can only wait for the others to arrive."

They both sat in silence for the next three minutes and twelve seconds – there was nothing they could think of to say, nothing that wouldn't get them more worried, more frustrated, more unwilling to wait, even if it was the most prudent course of action.

Then two people came down the stairs too. Harold and Root were immediately on their feet again.

Fusco looked like he might murder someone by shoving a donut down their throat, and Carter had that air of righteous fury about her – Root seriously hoped they wouldn't be the ones to suffer her anger; after all, she had been the one to insist to be in the know, and it wasn't as if she was the only one who was worried.

"What the hell is that about this time?!"

Harold gave the two detective a hard look for a moment before answering. The man could be short-tampered too, especially when he wasn't at fault and people still snapped at him. He particularly didn't like being blamed for things he had nothing to do with, because he already blamed himself for many, many things.

The hacker reflected that it was John's case too, except the operative had the bad habit of just accepting the blame instead of rejecting it, because he felt like he was absolutely – not responsible, no – worthless, all in all. The number of times John had just gone with everyone else's blame, never denying anything, never defending himself...

Harold could understand Carter's reaction, of course, and later on, he'd forgive any outburst, like she always forgot his, but he wasn't going to just accept it.

"You know as much as we do, Detective. So if you could please..."

"To hell with your politeness, Finch! Do you have any idea what it is to be woken up at four in the morning by an unknown caller and hear that kind of message? I immediately went to check upon Taylor, terrified that one of these Samaritan bastard had snuck in while I slept and taken my son!"

"I can assure you, Detective, that..."

"Now you are going to do whatever is needed to make sure there isn't any danger, or so help me, Finch, I'll...!"

"Enough!"

Harold was fuming, Root could tell, and perhaps the detective had picked it up too, because while Carter still looked like she was about to explode, she stopped talking for a moment.

If she wanted an answer, after all, it would be more efficient to let the man talk.

Bear whined, still looking at the entrance.

"Was your son harmed in any way?"

Carter had cooled down a bit as she responded.

"No... But he could have been."

Fusco, who had been eyeing his partner warily all along, supplied helpfully:

"Mine neither, if anyone is interested...?"

Joss froze for a moment, and gave her partner a look. She hadn't even thought that Lionel had probably reacted exactly like she had...

Finch sighed, and turned back to look at his screens, scanning the nearby surveillance cameras, in case one of their two remaining friends arrived – or, worse, if Samaritan operatives somehow came.

"I cannot tell you how pleased I am that neither Lee nor Taylor have been taken, Detectives, but I must remind you you were fully aware of the risks when you decided to continue working with us, despite our reluctance to have you involved in anything else than the numbers. Ms Groves, Ms Shaw, Mr Reese and myself, it's different. We don't have anyone left, but you... We told you, Joss. And you insisted."

The Detective sighed, and took a seat.

"I... I'm sorry, Finch. This phone call just messed with my head."

The hacker gave her a smile – a bit tight, perhaps, but genuine nonetheless.

"I know, Detective. I don't resent you. But I don't take kindly to being verbally attacked when I am myself worried for our friends, I hope you understand that too."

"Of course... So, who's lef..."

Before she could finish her sentence, a noise in the direction of the Subway's entrance caught their attention. Bear's ears went up for a moment. The dog sniffed the air, and hightailed to the stairs.

A moment later, Shaw was walking down the stairs while trying to pet the anxious dog.

"Calm down, Bear, calm! Yeah, you're a good boy, I know. You were worried about me?"

Root suddenly brightened, and followed Bear in hightailing to the new arrival.

"Sameen! You're alright!"

Shaw froze, and squinted at the tallish woman with a scowl.

"Of course I'm alright. Who do you think I am? I was more worried for you, you know. You might think you're all badass and everything, but without the Machine whispering in your ear, you're not that good. I mean, obviously you're a sure shot with a gun, or even two, and you can defend yourself alright in a fight, but you're still not at the level of a professional fighter. And Samaritan has a few, if you remember."

Root stared at the persian woman in silence for a moment, and Shaw wondered if there was anything in that speech she'd regret later...

Before she could come to a conclusion, however, the perky psycho in front of her broke into a grin – yeah, there was definitely at least one thing she'd soon regret, Shaw could tell – and hugged her profusely. Shaw frowned in confusion, and Carter, Fusco and Finch shrugged in the background.

"Awww, Sameen, so you were worried about me?"

Crap.

Root ended the hug, and tried to pat Sameen on the cheek gently, but the other woman swept her hand away and went to rejoin the others with a scowl.

She could still hear Root fawning in the background, though.

"Does that mean I'm your most important person, Sameen? Sameen? Hello~? By the way, I'm happy to hear that you consider me a good shooter! Would you volunteer to help me become a better hand-to-hand fighter?"

Shaw ignored her – or tried, and turned to look at Finch.

"So. What do we have?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. For all we know, Samaritan was simply trying to lure us out, without actually having one of us. Or perhaps it's all a mind game, to get us on edge before a worse offensive. We're still waiting on John, as it is, and we've checked on our more... civilian, let's say, connections. Everyone seems alright."

Shaw scowled – maybe she should just stay like thar; at least she wouldn't have to bother next time something angered her.

"So what? Lambert's trying to keep us from sleeping?"

Fusco sighed, and looked around the Subway station. Even now that Shaw had arrived, the dog seemed pitiful. After his happiness with the woman's arrival, he had gone to lie down just at the bottom of the stairs, his ears down too, and his muzzle on his paws.

Waiting for...

Lionel frowned. There was something they were missing. What had the guy on the phone said, already? … "The most important person to one of you"...

"Wait a minute. Wonderboy's still not there, is he?"

There was a moment of silence. The others looked at Lionel in confusion, obviously not seeing what it had to do with anything. The detective didn't particularly like the feeling it gave him.

Root arched an eyebrow at him.

"And so? He's going to get there soon, I suppose. It's not like even bodily harm, short of it being extreme, could keep him away from doing whatever he wants..."

As the hacker spoke, Lionel saw realization hit her right in the face.

"Exactly. Wonderboy would already be here if he could. And since he's not..."

Carter finished his thought for him.

"...then it means he's the one they got."

They all turned to look at the stairs, almost hoping John Reese to arrive and prove them all wrong. But all they saw was Bear, whining unhappily at the entrance.

Finch turned frantically to his computer, scanning again all the surveillance cameras he could find around the Subway and John's appartment, but they all knew already that he wasn't going to find anything. Somehow, Lambert had gotten to John, and it was probably his phone that he had used to get into their private network.

And all this time, none of them had considered – or if they had it had been no more than a fleeting thought – that John might have been the one taken. They hadn't forgotten about him, of course, they had even worried a bit, they had waited for him to arrive, to be there to help...

...But none of them had seriously considered him a potential victim.

Joss let out a strangled laugh.

"I... Our most important person. I immediately thought of Taylor. Lionel checked on Lee. Logical, they are our children. You two, you worried about each other, and I guess Harold was making sure Grace was alright in Italy. But we didn't even think it could be John, did we? Because that guy said 'the most important person', and John isn't..."

She couldn't even finish that thought out loud.

Joss, Lionel, Shaw, Root, Harold, none of them were ashamed of having thought about someone else first, and they shouldn't be. But realizing that, not only they had relied on Lambert's word, but also not even one of them had even thought about John that way... It hurt.

For them, because they should have known, and they shouldn't have dismissed his absence so easily.

But more than that, it made them all painfully aware that John wasn't anyone's most important person. That there would always be someone who'd be considered before him, no matter the situation, no matter the person he'd talk to.

That John himself probably knew it, and thought it normal.

And they wondered why the man was always so self-sacrificial...

"The dog's the only who noticed, isn't he?"

 **oOo**

The sound cut, and Lambert raised a disappointed eyebrow. They had managed to secure the calls, even if they hadn't been able to track back the sources, though the Machine had somehow tampered with the sounds so that no name was audible, but apparently that had been shut down too.

Oh well. They had what they wanted. Getting to the others would only be a matter of time, now.

Lambert looked back at John Reese, ziptied to his chair, and having completely listened to his friends' efforts to find each other. But never him.

Reese gave him a defiant, hardened glare.

"Interesting how you aren't any of their first choices, isn't it?"

The tied-up operative looked him in the eyes, and Lambert searched for the smallest indication of hurt, of disappointment, perhaps. Of betrayal. Except all he found was sarcasm.

Reese licked his lips slowly, rehydrating them before speaking, and his mouth broke into a sneer.

"And so? What else is new?"

Lambert stood up brutally, and kicked Reese's chair, making him fall to the ground.

The man knew... he had known all along! And he didn't freaking care! How?!

They wouldn't get anything out of him.

* * *

 _I have no idea how Samaritan and the Machine managed to do what they did with the cellphones in this OS, but I needed John to hear it all, and the others to be safe, so... Please excuse the blatant plot device._

 _Now, onto a more personal matter:_

 _And this, is the reason I hate it when fanfiction authors just give Bear to Shaw and Root, and let John in the corner, all alone. The guy already has no one just for himself, he even shares his dog with everyone, and now that? Sure, I agree that Shaw was the one who should get Bear in canon, but that's because John is dead._

 _In fact, I often find it sad that John gets forgotten so often in fanfics, except if its Rinch ( which I don't really read ). He's a great character, and thank you, but he's just as capable as Shaw. I think they're equal as fighters, she's a medic on top, and he's good at undercover work ( unlike Shaw, who can do passable if needed, but isn't that great at "human interactions" ), and well, I don't like it when people just dismiss him..._

 _Which is totally why I wrote that. I know._


	8. MV - When in doubt, cross to MachineVill

_This world is a Second World. Meaning, some people who are now human weren't in the First World._

 _They finally found how to Awaken them ( and it's not pretty )._

 _How the Machine come to be, how Harold was Banned, how Shaw was Awakened, how Root decided she wanted to be too, how John can be both Awakened and Heartless._

 _How Greer is of course lurking in the background._

* * *

 _This is dark, I must say, but more in a night-dark way than evil-dark way. Steampunk fantasy, I'd say?_

 _And I'm not sure I'll be doing much with this AU, but it needed to be written._

 _Contains werewolf!Shaw, prophet!Root, angel!Reese ( well... sort of ), rebirth while I'm at it._

 _I'm basically laying out an AU there, not sure what I'll do with it._

* * *

 **MachineVille - When in doubt, cross to MachineVille**

MachineVille wass the Heart and the Head of the world. Everything that happened in the world also happened in MachineVille. There wasn't, as of today, a corner of the world that didn't know of MachineVille.

And, of course, MachineVille knew all about the world.

That is, all within the current reach of human knowledge.

MachineVille might be the Heart and the Head, but it was not the whole world, though. If it had been, there would be no point to MachineVille. After all, MachineVille was created to be in charge of the rest of the world. Of its Body.

Whatever happens in MachineVille changes the face of the world.

Even the smallest events.

 **oOo**

Harold and Nathan Ingram could be said to have founded MachineVille.

They were the ones who had discovered the Pit and its power. They were the ones who had made IFT into the most powerful business in the world, bringing all the countries, all the people together – around the wonders of the Pit.

The sheer energy the Pit gave to the world, the technological leaps – or, let's be serious, at this point it was more magic than science, even if scientists did find a logic behind it all – the discoveries about the true nature of humanity, all this had been made possible thanks to IFT.

Thanks to Nathan Ingram and Harold.

But Nathan Ingran was dead – pushed into the Pit – and Harold was just Harold, now.

Even the ones who had known him didn't remember Harold's complete name.

 **oOo**

Harold had been Banned by the Council. He didn't officially exist anymore. He didn't even have a last name anymore, and no one could remember what it was, even if they did know he had had one.

It's logical, really. You can't remember something that doesn't exist.

Being Banned meant you didn't exist.

Harold didn't exist anymore, not since he had been Banned. Now, he was just Harold. He still had a first name – but at that point, did it even matter? It wasn't as if there was anyone left to call him by his first name.

A Banned person didn't exist, even if they did continue to live on. No ordinary human could see them, nor hear them, nor sense them. They were present, but that was it. They moved, they lived, they died like everyone else – but no one ever noticed them. People walked around them, their eyes passed over them without seeing them, and their brain didn't register any of the sounds they made.

They were still there, but they weren't.

 **oOo**

The Pit had been found thirty years ago, by two young men: Nathan Ingram and Harold. It was a large crater, full of dark silvery liquid, similar to quicksilver in looks, and mysterious. They had found it had all the lineaments of molten metal, except it wasn't hot, but rather like some thick water, running through their fingers without burning.

The Mystery, they called it in a laugh.

The Mystery of the Pit, as it soon became, took all of their attention.

It was incredible. It generated energy on its own, amongst other things. Using it in quantity allowed them to make portals from one point of the world to another, as you'd push open a door. It wasn't quite teleportation, but it was incredible enough anyway.

In less than ten years, Harold and Nathan Ingram were the richest men in the world, and MachineVille was becoming a reality.

At the time, Nathan Ingram was still alive, and Harold still had a last name.

 **oOo**

MachineVille wasn't exactly a city, to say the truth. IFT stood in its center, true, but that was about all, with a few neighborhoods, that truly belonged to the city. Everything else came from the portals.

IFT's tower had been built over the Pit, cutting it from external contacts. The Mystery couldn't be left into idle hands, Nathan Ingram and Harold had agreed on that fact. It could even less be left into just anyone's hands.

The rest of MachineVille was a succession of portals, opening onto all of the world's greatest cities. Washington, Beijing, Sydney, Jakarta, Paris, Alger... all the capitals of the world had their portal open in MachineVille, but not only the capitals. Florence, New York, Constantine, Osaka, Rio...

MachineVille was nothing more than the rest of the world overflowing onto a small Island in the Pacific Ocean.

It made sense for the World Council to meet in MachineVille.

 **oOo**

Then, five years ago, it had been discovered that fresh Mystery, taken directly into the Pit, could not only be used for technology, but also on biological beings. Especially on the human body.

If – and only on the individuals with a Secret, no exception – If used on a Secretive, the miraculous metal would reveal, revive their lost nature. Not exactly as it had been, but close enough.

It had been known for decades already, that the world this humanity lived in wasn't a First World.

Almost a century ago, a scientist had discovered hidden genetical traits in random individuals, not tied either by family nor by birth place. Their research had surprisingly concluded that this world was a Second World; there was a First World they all came from, a world they had first lived in, as someone else, sometimes as something else, and the Second World they now lived in was a place of second chances for their souls.

The Secretives, as they were now called, were parahuman individuals from the First World, who had been reborn into humans this time around – because there were only humans in this world.

Or, to be exact, there had only been humans in this Second World, until Arthur Claypool accidentally discovered the effects of Mystery on a Secretive individual.

 **oOo**

Secretives had been used by the Council long before that, of course. Because the Mystery of the Pit was new and made juggling between science and magic – was there really another way to name it? – much more easier, didn't mean nothing of the sort had been discovered before.

After all, what was the Ban, if not magic? – unexplained science, people like Harold would say; pure magic, people like Nathan Ingram would say.

Before Mystery, nothing could pull out the former attributes of a Secretive, that much was clear. But science had still managed to use them. Secretives could be tested since the very year they had been discovered. A simple DNA test, to see whether or not you were a Secretive – and if you were, a cerebral waves test to determine what category of Secretive you were.

Light – angels, some whispered, even if there wasn't a way to tell for sure. Nature – shifters and elemental users, closer to magic than any other secretives. Allegory – a concept turned human; dangerous in their own way, because completely dedicated. Voice – telepaths, empaths, seers... Night – demons, some hissed, just as they did for Light Secretives.

Not that the categories changed anything, before the discovery of the Pit.

 **oOo**

The Tomb was the name people gave to the agency who did all the dirty work for the Council – not for the Council, really, but perhaps, also, behind the Council's back. The Tomb was, in a way, the most secret of the intelligence agencies out there. The top of the food chain.

Of course, the Tomb didn't only deal with assassinations and other distasteful tasks. But the Undertakers certainly didn't shy away from such work, should the need arise.

A Secret test was mandatory to any agent with middle to high clearance, and not only when working for the Tomb. Most agencies asked for it.

It's really important only for Undertakers, though. Because after a few years within the Tomb, a Secretive agent will be offered, if considered reliable and trustworthy, the opportunity to make use of their Secret. It had been so since the First and Second worlds had become common knowledge.

Back then, though, the Pit hadn't been discovered. Attributes from former lives couldn't yet be revived. For all that, a Secretive could still become more than a simple human.

Occult sciences could make them Heartless.

 **oOo**

A Heartless was a weapon in itself, even more so than any other Tomb agents – also known as Undertakers. A Heartless was, theoretically, an Undertaker, since the secret to their making was kept within the Tomb – spreading it would be treason, and could only end with a death sentence – but they were also much more than that.

The issue with Banned people, the Tomb had realized later on, was that since no one could see them – no one could pay attention to them, even if they wanted to – the Banned could do pretty much whatever they wanted. They still existed, after all. Even if they had only a first name left. They could still touch, and interfere. They could see each others, too.

What had been meant as a punishment had become a great danger.

Heartless agents weren't like most people, though. The removal of their heart, the change they had undergone made them different – almost inhuman. They kept on living no matter what you did to them, short of utterly destroying their body, for one. The fact that they still felt pain was irrelevant.

They could also see and interact with the Banned.

For each Banned out there, the Tomb had at least one Heartless keeping an eye on them – killing them, should it be done.

 **oOo**

Nathan Ingram had revealed the discovery of the effects of fresh Mystery on the human body, especially on a Secretive's nature, as soon as Harold and him had realized what could be done with it. The good as well as the bad.

The Tomb had been particularly interested in what it could mean for its Secretive agents – just as Nathan Ingram had hoped. No more Heartless could only be an improvement in his mind. He had seen enough Heartless Undertakers to say there was something twisted in their nature – even if they could still feel, like anybody else. Emotions really have nothing to do with the heart, as it is.

Except the Tomb had refused to stop making Heartless agents. Nothing proved an Awakened Secretive would be able to see a Banned, and unless Nathan Ingram had a guarantee against that, the Tomb would not stop turning Secretives into Heartless agents.

The Council had backed up the claim – someone needed to keep an eye on the Banned, and only the Heartless could do that.

So IFT and the Tomb made a deal.

Harold and Nathan Ingram made sure that IFT handed over a certain quantity of fresh Mystery, reviewed the candidate to Awaken, and one of their scientists handled the Awakening themselves. They ensured that the Tomb, and possibly other official agencies, would get their Awakened Secretives, and in exchange, no Heartless would be put through an Awakening. They had no idea what kind of monster it might produce, and they didn't want to find out – supposing the Heartless would even survive a second operation.

 **oOo**

Someone in the Council hadn't been happy with that decision, and before long a thief was introduced into IFT. A mercenary, hired to smuggle out some fresh Mystery, with which a former IFT scientist would try to make an Awakened Heartless.

Rick Dillinger managed to get three vials of Mystery to the scientist before Nathan Ingram caught him stealing. The scientist and the power-seeking councilman disappeared with their stolen Mystery, and to get away, Rick Dillinger pushed Nathan Ingram into the Pit under Harold's eyes.

Dillinger was shot dead as he tried to cross the portal to Berlin, Germany, by a young Undertaker, Sameen Shaw, Nature Secretive, candidate to the Awakening. That was the only time Sameen Shaw and Harold ever saw each other.

Nathan Ingram's human mind fused with the core of the Mystery, despite him not being a Secretive. Harold watched most of the liquid metal rise from the Pit, shaping itself into a spherical mesh of consciousness – not Nathan anymore, no, but something else...

A machine, he realized. A machine connected to all the power devices it supplied, a machine that worked like a human mind – only, much more powerful. A machine able to predict ill intents and acts of violence.

A machine unlike any other.

 **oOo**

The Council asked Harold to hand over the Machine, or, since it couldn't actually be moved, to let the Tomb monitor it. It was too much power for an oganization like the Tomb, Harold knew. Too much power for only one man, even. He refused.

The Machine, as if sensing his decision, shut itself out of any external sights, only communicating, from then on, through a Voice Secretive who had been Awakened to be what would have been, in another time, in another word, a prophet. Numbers, mostly, indicating an individual relevant to worldwide security – people against the Council, people against this, people against that, as well as ordinary people unwittingly key to undoing someone else's ill intents. Sometimes, another set of numbers, different.

Always relevant.

Angered at Harold's refusal to hand over the Machine, blaming him for its shut out, the Council had him Banned, with the sole comfort of not having any Heartless watching him – yet. It could still change. They made sure he knew that.

Harold's and Nathan Ingram's precautions, though, held still. IFT continued working even without the visible presence of its owner – Harold was still there, after all. He could type without a problem. He just couldn't meet anyone face to face anymore.

The Machine never opened itself to anyone.

And the numbers started coming.

 **oOo**

Harold was alone, nameless, and invisible. The Machine gave him numbers, too, once he finished mourning his friend and his life. Irrelevant ones.

But while Harold could sneek around without a problem now – no one paid him any attention, it had to be good for something – unless a Heartless Undertaker was around, he still had a hard time preventing deaths. He simply wasn't a field operative.

Also, investigating while being unable to question anyone wasn't exactly easy.

In the lonely desert his life had become – Harold hadn't lost Nathan Ingram only, that day, but Grace Hendricks too, his fiancée, and Will Ingram, Nathan's son – he saved as many lives as he could in MachineVille, relying on anonymous e-mailed tips to the police. From time to time he crossed over to another country, to take care of an irrelevant number.

He could see everything, could go anywhere he wanted – but he didn't live in the world anymore.

Harold could have gone and sought other Banned like him, but most of them were truly unpleasant individuals. A Ban just wasn't used for trivial reasons. Harold considered himself an unfairness in the system, but certainly not an occurrence of an usual injustice.

The system wasn't perfect, he was well aware of that, but what system was?

Besides, seeking out other Banned might get the Tomb after him, more than the agency already was, and he didn't need that.

 **oOo**

John Reese was a Heartless Undertaker, specializing in tracking down the most ruthless of the Banned, who used their punishment as a gift to commit more and more crimes unnoticed. Or, you know, the ones who couldn't bear the loneliness and became psychotic.

John Reese and Kara Stanton were a Heartless team, Light and Night categories respectively – not that it changed much of anything – working under Mark Snow, a regular Undertaker without Secret.

One day they were sent after a normal criminal – that is, as ruthless and immoral as usual, just not a Banned one – in China. There wasn't always a Banned to take out, after all, it was rare, in fact, and they had to make themselves useful.

Besides, the guy really deserved what the two Heartless had in mind for him.

John Reese had never appreciated serial killers, and he certainly did have it against a man who thought he could take out Secretives only because they were potentially different.

Things didn't go as planned.

 **oOo**

Greer wasn't as power-hungry as some people may think. On the contrary, his goal wasn't to control the world or some meaningless foolishness of the kind. What he wanted was a better world...

And he didn't particularly care how many people he'd have to sacrifice to get there.

He had been tested years ago, and declared an Allegory Secretive. Allegories were a problem in themselves, in that should they be Awakened, they suddenly had only one goal in mind. Everything else was accessory.

The first vial stolen by Rick Dillinger had been used to Awaken Greer.

His Secret was the Allegory of Order. Everything in its place.

His better world was a world without chaos, where everyone would be at their designated place. There would be no doubt, no madness, no danger. No choice, too.

After all, why would you need to choose? You were already who and where you were meant to be.

Greer had spent two decades working for the Council, trying to bring peace and order to the world, and while some of his efforts had been successful, too many had failed. He had watched too many people die, because they weren't where they were supposed to be, because one person went against what the others stood for.

Greer wanted order and peace for his new world. But to get there, he's first need to spread the chaos. He needed soldiers to go against the system in place.

Heartless and Awakened Secretives were the best operatives one could hope for. What would an Awakened Heartless be able to do, he wondered...

 **oOo**

Jeremy Lambert wasn't a serial killer, but John Reese and Kara Stanton realized that too late.

Jeremy Lambert was an operative, like them – though not a former Tomb agent, they could tell – who worked with the scientist who had desisted from IFT. Jeremy Lambert was working for the unnamed Council member who had gotten their hands on stolen Mystery, and if he was going after Secretives, it was because they wanted soldiers.

The scientist was trying to replicate the effects of fresh Mystery, which they had in limited quantity, with altered Mystery, more common. He wanted to be able to Awaken a Secretive's true nature.

The dead Secretives the two men had left behind them weren't a serial killer's victims, but experiments gone wrong.

And while John Reese and Kara Stanton were immensely dangerous and efficient, they hadn't exactly expected Jeremy Lambert to be aware of their presence, nor had they expected a scientist to drug them unconscious, and start experimenting on them.

It had all been a trap, they realized too late, to get two Heartless Secretives to experiment on.

To start what IFT had refused to do: Awakening a Heartless Secretive, and turning them into yet another kind of human weapon.

John Reese knew he wouldn't yield, no matter what Lambert's master wanted – even if the Tomb wasn't perfect, and he knew it, the agency was doing good... most of the time. More than that, the work people like him did, Heartless or not, was necessary. He wasn't doing it because he liked it, but because he was good at it, and he'd rather be the one doing it than someone who didn't care.

Kara Stanton knew she wouldn't cede, no matter what was promised to her – because beyond the fact that she loved her work, she also cared that, while she might not know all the reasons behind the secrets behind the pretenses, it was more or less the good fight. She was loyal to the Tomb, as long as the Tomb respected her loyalty.

 **oOo**

John Reese broke out of Ordos two days after Kara Stanton's resolution started to waver – two days after Lambert told them that his master had someone in the Tomb, someone who had sent them after him, fully aware of what was awaiting them.

John Reese hadn't broken – but perhaps that was because there was nothing left in him to break to begin with.

He didn't know where to go. The Tomb would probably consider him compromised, after two months in the enemy's hands, and even if he could probably prove them wrong with some time, there was still the matter of the mole. He didn't have a life besides his work as an Undertaker, either, not since a long time. He didn't have a purpose.

He could pass himself off as a normal human, he guessed, as long as no one tried to check his chest for the crimson scar that said he didn't have a heart anymore, but apart from that...?

What was he supposed to do? Who was he supposed to be?

Lambert's master would probably be looking for him, and the Tomb would react if he got back onto the grid. He didn't want to go private – mercenary were rarely hired to do good, and John Reese did what he did to save as many people as possible, not for the fame or the money.

He wasn't even sure he'd survive long, not after the Awakening. No one had ever tried it on a Heartless Secretive, after all.

When in doubt, cross to MachineVille.

 **oOo**

Sameen Shaw was given a choice, as she finished her third year working for the Tomb: Heartless, or Awakened?

The promotion meant she had been deemed trustworthy, and efficient. Had she been an Allegory, she'd have only been offered the Heartless promotion; she wasn't. She was a Nature Secretive, a wolf, the test said, and while she could appreciate the almost-invulnerability that came with being Heartless, she was curious as to what it'd be like to be able to turn into a beast at will – no full moon and weird habits even in human form to deal with, either; that was a plus.

Her teammate, Michael Cole, a Voice, had Awakened his true nature two years prior, and she had to say, he seemed way happier than the few Heartless she had met since she had started working for the Tomb. Heartless were... cold, she supposed. Hurting, too, because they did feel the pain from their wounds, even if said wounds couldn't kill them, and no one ever cared. And, more than that, they were completely silent.

Sameen Shaw figured she was bad enough at human interactions as it was. Being Awakened was probably a better option for her.

Besides, she really liked werewolves stories – as long as she didn't have to deal with the moon-induced urges on top of her own womanly cyclic issues, she didn't even care if Nature Secretives weren't immortal or superstrong even in human form, unlike some stories said.

What? A superpower had to be limited, or else there'd be no fun in taking out a bad guy.

 **oOo**

Harold was trying to help – losing would be a better word, at this point – yet another irrelevant number, when one of his safety alerts rang on his cellphone.

He stared at the screen for a long minute before really realizing what was going on.

The video feed on the screen wasn't exactly clear, the sound was awful, and the fast motions in the scene displayed were making it all kind of blurry, but Harold recognized the face. The man defending himself against a bunch of lowlives... He looked tired, sick, even, but he was more than enough of a challenge to get the four attackers on the ground nonetheless.

And Harold had already seen that face.

There was a number of things he was certain of, right now, and just as many he wasn't sure of, at all.

What Harold knew wasn't reassuring. First, the man in the subway was John Reese, an Undertaker. Second, John Reese had been declared missing, possibly dead by the Tomb, three months prior. Third, John Reese had been Awakened, and something wasn't going well.

What Harold didn't know wasn't reassuring either. First, he had no idea whether or not John Reese was a Heartless – the fact that he had worked for the Tomb for more than a decade, and that he was a Light Secretive, implied that he was, but it wasn't as if it was written in his digital file. Second, he wasn't sure what had been driving John Reese to do what he did all these years – his psychological evaluation suggested both a psychopathic inclination and a hero complex without favoring one assessment over the other, which wasn't helping at all. Third, he didn't know if he could, or even should help the man – if the Secretive was Heartless and Awakened...

Then again, Harold did need someone to handle the numbers on the field.

 **oOo**

MachineVille Detective Joss Carter had been tested a number of years before, when she had been assigned to the island, but as her test had revealed her to be an Allegory, she had just gone on with her life as usual. There was worse than being the Allegory of Law, she surmised, but she didn't want to become completely obsessed with it, over her son, over everything else, either.

Not that anyone would have agreed to Awaken an Allegory, anyway. The only one who had been Awakened, four years ago, had gone from friendly attorney at law to psychotic self-righteous vigilante in two months, and it had been deemed a bad idea to Awaken an Allegory Secretive.

As for becoming Heartless... The MVPD didn't need Heartless agents. Only the Tomb did.

So no, all in all, MVPD Detective Joss Carter was a normal, if good, police detective. Perhaps a bit more law-driven than anyone else, but nothing worrying. It was her job, after all, to enforce the law.

When Joss Carter saw John Reese for the first time, he had beaten up four thugs near the China portal. And he looked sick. And she had no idea who he was – Undertakers didn't exactly have their faces plastered on public walls for everyone to see.

The unknown man looked tired, but that wasn't all there was to it. His hair was completely silver-colored, almost shiny under the glow of the neon light. He was sweating profusely, and had a hard time focusing his eyesight.

One of the uniformed cop had told Joss Carter he had been bleeding from his ears and nose when they had arrived at the scene. The blood had been laced with a silvery liquid that looked a lot like Mystery.

She was really, really interested, now.

 **oOo**

Samantha Groves would rather be called Root, but she didn't paticularly mind being called any other name, since she hadn't gone by anything less than two-hundred-and-thirty-eight aliases in the last two decades.

This time, she was Margaret Curie, a very enthusiastic would-be federal agent for the Bureau – long story short, she needed access to the Bureau's training facilities, because reasons, and obviously, the best way to get there was to be send there.

The Bureau, as it was, asked for any potential agent to undergo a Secret test, something Root hadn't ever done. It was curious, when she thought about it, considering all the things she had done in her life. She had figured she'd do a test one day or another, but in the end, it hadn't really interested her.

At least, not until IFT's discovery, the Awakening – the only thing possible to do with a Secret until then had been to become a Heartless, and thank you very much, but she wasn't interested. Besides, the Tomb would never have allowed her to become one.

Root had never really thought about what being a Secretive might mean for her, because she had always been convinced she was just a plain old human – alright, not so plain. A genius, yes, and very good at a lot of things, yes, but not a Secretive.

It turned out she was wrong.

Root stared for a time at her test results, her eyes glued to the printed words: _Positive. Voice category, prophet._

Then she started considering getting Awakened, finding herself a Goddess to prophesy about, and starting a whole new life, much more interesting than the one she had now – which was pretty interesting on its own, just to be clear.

It'd ask a lot of work to craft herself an identity that would fool even the Tomb, but...

Samantha Groves, also known as Root, squinted.

 **oOo**

John Reese felt like he was going to fall apart anytime – knowing his luck, he'd probably melt down into a puddle of blood and other liquified bodily substances. He had had enough time to study the results of his "illness", since the Awakening, and as far as he could tell, the spells used to keep his blood running even without his heart were falling apart.

Consequence? The blood was running out, literally.

He guessed Awakening a Heartless Secretive wasn't possible, after all.

He didn't really care, as it was. Dying wasn't something he feared.

He'd just appreciate if it could be faster, and, you know, painless. If possible. He wasn't picky.

John Reese wasn't feeling well, at all. Which explained why he didn't react right away when the door was pushed open by a man with spiky yet very short hair. Which explained why he didn't notice the obvious. Which explained why he didn't catch onto the fact that no one was paying attention to the man who was certainly not a cop and yet was in a police precinct.

The man spoke, calling him by his most used name.

It suddenly jumped at his throat, the knowing feeling, the peculiar tinge of a Banned.

Harold. One of the two founders of IFT. A very private person; even if everyone knew his name – or what was left of it – very few people could tell they had actually met him before the Ban.

There was only one Banned by that name, unless another Harold had been Banned during the last three months, so the Heartless was pretty sure of the Banned's identity.

John Reese wondered idly if the Banned was going to try and murder him, when he was apparently defenseless – not a normal situation for a Heartless Undertaker. Anyone might want to give it a try, just because. Out of curiosity. Not that it mattered, anyway.

Then Harold proposed to help him.

 **oOo**

The Pit was a crater that produced Mystery as soon as you took some out, and no one, not even Nathan Ingram and Harold, had a scientific explanation for that.

Harold led John Reese inside IFT's tower, right to the Pit, and no one paid them any attention. The Ban on Harold was strong enough to dissimulate the Heartless too, it seemed – after all, if someone noticed John Reese, they'd have to wonder to whom he was talking, and that... that wasn't possible. You just didn't notice a Banned person in any way, not unless they did something that affected you physically, and even then, it took a lot of reasoning to conclude that a Banned had been present.

Heartless, such as John Reese, could see and interact with Banned people. Following Harold down into the Pit wasn't exactly hard from there.

There was a huge, silver sphere hovering above the pit.

The Machine.

John Reese didn't say a word. Only stared.

Harold talked – to the Machine, directly. Asking if it thought that John Reese might be who he needed, to take care of the irrelevant numbers. If John Reese deserved another chance.

If he could be saved.

Harold received a text on his cellphone, and nodded thoughtfully.

It said there might be a way, but nothing was certain. It might not work. It hadn't been tried before.

 **oOo**

MachineVille Detective Lionel Fusco was a plain old human, no Secret, no superpower. He had grown up in MachineVille, his father a worker for IFT. His mother had taught him to do good.

Perhaps he had forgotten a bit about that.

Then again, it wasn't as if there had been anyone else than a bunch of corrupt cops to have his back during the last decade. Corrupt, yes, they were. But they were his friends. And they had been there for him, when no one else had been.

Except this was getting worse by the minute, and Lionel Fusco simply didn't know what to do for it to end. It wasn't as if he could simply quit.

The night it happened, he had crossed over to New York, to take care of whoever needed to be taken care of this time. Or rather, to make sure that the evidence left behind by his friends told exactly the story they wanted it to tell.

That night, everything went sideways.

That night Lionel Fusco met John Reese. Heartless. Awakened. Light. Freaking dangerous.

The former Undertaker was dressed in black and white – grey, silver, whatever, still black and white – but was probably the most grey individual Lionel Fusco had ever met.

For half a second, maybe, Lionel Fusco saw John Reese with his power unleashed.

It scared him straight.

 **oOo**

MachineVille was a place unlike any other, that much was certain.

What it'd mean for the world... that much remained to be seen.


	9. PK - The basement

_It happened that he was particularly skilled at killing people._  
 _He supposed he could make the best of it, couldn't he?_

* * *

 _Well..._

 _I don't know._

 _I might write more of it, not like a completely continuous story, but several one-shots? Maybe?_

* * *

 **Practical killer - The basement**

The blood gushed out of the wound without so much as a warning – not that it had been unexpected, but wow! That guy must have had a hell of a blood pressure... or he's right out of a Tarantino movie – and hit John right in the face.

Eyes screwed shut – blood in the eyes was never pleasant, and he had been waiting for it – John wiped off the offending crimson liquid with the towel he had put on the chair's back earlier on.

He'd have to wash his face before leaving.

Then again, he had all the time in the world to do whatever was needed before leaving, and cleaning himself up entirely had been on the schedule from the very beginning. He didn't own the freaking place just for pleasure, you know – paid cash, obviously.

Though, in a way, you could say he did own the place for pleasure. He used the reconditioned basement only when he had someone to kill and to make the body disappear afterwards, and really, such activities were pleasant enough. Not something he'd do an a 24/7 basis, but once in a while, it did feel good.

And, more than that, it felt useful. John wasn't absolutely certain he'd find what he wanted by doing this, but for now it was the only thing that even marginally called a reaction in his addled memory.

Well. Murdering assholes did the trick, but police uniforms did too. But he doubted he had been a police officer – for very long, at least – if he was this comfortable with killing people and knew so much about how to dissolve a body with caustic soda. Simple logic, really.

Perhaps he only had a uniform kink. At this point, he wouldn't really be surprised.

He might hire an uniformed stripper sometimes soon to see if it got him turned on.

The blood was flowing slower now into the drain, and John nodded thoughtfully. This guy was done for, now – he did seem to have experience with slashing a throat open; then again, he had found out he was skilled in about every possible way to kill someone, slowly or not, from firearms to poisons and barehanded techniques.

John turned to look at the person on the second rack, bloody knife still in hand, but not yet about to use it again. He was amused enough by the sight of her eyes, wide and frightened.

"Funny, isn't it?"

The woman's eyes turned around to her bodyguard, throat slit open two feet away from her, and looked so terribly terrified and maybe a bit about to throw up, that John couldn't help but to continue on – he didn't particularly need to gloat or to start a villainous monologue, but she deserved it.

"No? Well, for your information, Miss January, this is what you were about to hire me to do. Not on your bodyguard, I'm sure, but nonetheless. You came to me, you asked me to kill a man and his entire family because they stood in the way of your business, and now you think I'm a monster?"

The woman – not Miss January, of course, but it wasn't as if she would have given him her true name had he pointed out the obvious – tried to say something, but the gag kept any well-formed word from passing her lips. Better that way. John didn't want to hear her excuses, or her counter-offer, or insults about how he had more than a few screws loose. He knew that already.

He wasn't in it for the money. While he appreciated the income of being a killer for hire, he didn't have many needs. He took a job only if he saw it fit, and sometimes... Well, sometimes people like Miss January came to him, self-entitled and entirely obnoxious, and John decided they'd be his victims instead. The bodyguard wasn't exactly a saint either – former military, mercenary until not so long ago, had stopped being an assassin because of a leg injury, and was now Miss January's head of security. John always checked who his victims were before starting anything.

He might be a psychopath – or whatever else his problem was called – but he didn't like hurting undeserving people. If he was hired to take out someone just as ruthless as his employer, it was alright. If someone normal came in with a revenge against their daughter's killer, for example, he took the job too, even when it didn't pay a lot.

John wasn't pretending to be a better man because of his choice of victims; he just didn't see the point, when they were perfectly deserving people, to focus his efforts on innocent civilians – he also vaguely rememberd a time when he had had a huge hero complex, but he never spoke of that.

John put down the knife for a time, and just sat down in the chair, eyes on Miss January – hers were on him too, and he doubted she'd look anywhere else for the next minutes, the last of her life.

She didn't look like someone who'd hire a professional killer like him to end an innocent family, but what do you know? People were rarely what they looked like. John, for example, spent most of his time bartending in Brooklyn; he had made a number of almost-friends there, who knew he could send the next drunken asshole through a window without even breaking a sweat, but would never have imagined him as a killer for hire – or a serial killer; John wasn't completely sure which one of the two he was at that point.

He didn't display the tell-tale signs of a serial killer, he guessed, but at the same time he was quite diligent with killing people even without a job. When no one came to see him with a job, when no rich asshole tried to have him murder innocents, and when no one tried to kill him for too long, he walked through the streets and waited for an opportunity: a member of the local mob with blood on their hands, a drug dealer who wasn't afraid to kill a rival, a rapist he caught red-handed, once...

It wasn't that he needed to kill, no, but since his unfortunate dipping accident in the East River, and the subsequent drowing incident that had left him mostly ignorant of who he even was to begin with – he didn't even remember why he had tried to kill himself, wasn't that glorious? – killing seemed to be the only way to get some flashes of memory. Not much, and not anything that made a lot of sense – time in the military, battlefields, discreet suits, wounds, uniforms of several kinds, time at a desk, assassinations, jail, blood on his hands, two women at two different times, several funerals, the video of one of the women's wedding, a deserted city with only dead people inside, "Frank", being called too many names for it not to be suspicious, jails, oaths, a man with two broken legs whining pitifully but undeserving of any pity... And, more than anything, a lot of pain – physical, emotional – bottled down like it didn't even exist. Or rather, like it didn't even matter.

His feelings were irrelevant.

Perhaps he had PTSD, and was blocking out everything that had made him like that – if it was the case, then his whole life had been a large bleeding open wound.

"I don't particularly care how you die, Miss, so I'd let you the choice, if I didn't know you'd ask for something quick and without pain. Which, I must say, I can deliver. That's what I'd have done if I had taken your job offer, by the way. Except I didn't, because I don't assassinate innocent people if I can help it, and you don't deserve a fast, plain death."

He was still considering, as it was, how exactly he was going to make her pay for her arrogance.

John didn't particularly like making people suffer – somewhere deep inside, he even thought he might not like it at all – but the longer it took, the more he remembered. And, well, if taking his time was supposed to make him uncomfortable, if being cruel allowed him to remember... Perhaps, if he went too far too many times, his inner, top-secret-can't-remember-why?-please-come-back self would feel the need to come out again. Perhaps the traumatized personality inside him, who had all but closed the door with that dip in the East River, wouldn't be able to ignore what he was doing anymore.

Really, John only wanted to be himself again, and if that meant he had to murder a few people to get there... Well, there was a reason he always chose criminals.

There was a reason, too, why he was being careful about it. If he ever got back to who he was supposed to be, he didn't want to have the police after his ass for some unfortunate events like a body found with his fingerprints on it. Especially not as the NYPD already had his fingerprints.

A detective Carter had been with him to the hospital after his botched suicide attempt – someone had pulled him out before he could die properly. When she had realized he didn't even know who he was supposed to be, she had taken his fingerprints and told him she'd come back to tell him whether or not she found anything about him – like, say, if he had already had minor problems with the police, which was possible considering he was probably a bum.

Strangely enough John had felt it wasn't a good idea to stick around and wait for her to come back.

Turned out he had been right. Apparently he had several warrants on his head, from various countries, and all of them for murders.

Not that Detective Carter had been able to tell him that directly, since, you know, he had acted on his instincts and walked away before she came back with several uniformed officers.

No, John had stolen some cash from a would-be-thug, and gotten himself cleaned up – he didn't remember who he was, or why he wanted to die, and so, he didn't want to die anymore; what he wanted was to be himself again, now. Not looking anything like the bum who had been saved from a lethal dip from the Brooklyn Bridge. Way better than that.

Then he had gone to another precinct, lurked around for a few days, watching, guessing who was clean, who was dirty... And there he had found Lionel Fusco and his little friends. Or, you know, Fusco's now-dead dirty colleagues.

He had let Fusco live, because his heart wasn't in it, and it was obvious the detective more or less wanted out, but didn't know how to do that – or how to say no, for the matter. John could testify to that, considering he was now using the detective to keep an eye on Carter, to tell him what exactly she had on him... Which was more than John himself knew when he woke up in the hospital.

And yet not much.

"The thing, you see, with serial killers, and the standard psychopath too, now that I think about it, is that they let their emotions, their needs, their urges take over the moment they begin murdering people. They leave recognizable marks. Like, oh, that one was a nurse? Must be the Nightingale Killer. What, that one was beaten to death in a fit of rage? Let's look for fingerprints! And while it doesn't always work out right away for the police, they still end up finding them, because there's a moment they just can't control it. They let something slip."

John didn't like serial killers. He wasn't sure why exactly – why he disliked them more than the usual killer, that is – but perhaps that was a hint... Or maybe he was just a normal person about it, for once. Difficult to say, when you don't remember a thing.

"Serial killers... Their need to do everything in order... Tss! Good way to say: hey, that one's mine. Killers for hire, on the other hand... Well, they don't exactly choose their targets, so the police can't find a connection there. That's always a plus, I guess. But at the same time, if they have to make it not look like the obvious hit it is, but more like something personal or accidental, because it's their technique to stay discreet, or because the client asked for it... They tend to revert to that same exact pattern. Some will go for the throat, some will prefer a certain poison. In the end, they do have a pattern too."

So, what would it be, this time? Would he choke her, or would an injection be better?

"Me, on the other hand, I am comfortable with about any method of killing. For example, I cut open your bodyguard's throat, but I will shoot you in the stomach in less than two minutes. I don't particularly care, you see. And that way, it's more difficult to link the murders to only one person."

Better keep it simple, this time. Miss January would take some time to die, and John would be able to watch her suffer. Hoping that his real personality – not the ersatz he was going by right now – would finally come out and tell him to stop it. Even if it was just by cutting short the woman's suffering.

The real John hadn't come out to play once in seven months, though. But he wasn't losing hope. He needed it to work. Because if it didn't...

John might not remember why he had wanted to die, but it didn't mean he had a reason to live now.

He took the gun on the table, aimed it at Miss January – he'd have to look her up, at least to see what her name was. He didn't shoot right away. Considering.

A smirk.

The woman's fear grew in her eyes. So much, that it was comical. This kind of things didn't really make him laugh, in fact, not when it was because of a real threat. Scaring someone like Fusco, by implying things he wasn't actually going to do, except if the short man forced him to – well, that was fun. Taunting an actual victim wasn't particularly pleasant.

But John was all for doing whatever made him feel bad, if it might get a reaction out of him.

"Then again, it doesn't really matter if there isn't a body to examine, does it?"

There was a reason why he had so much lye in the backroom, after all.

The woman tried to say something, to beg for her life, probably – but there was a reason for the gag too. Not that anything she could have said would have gotten him to reconsider, not after the offer.

John pulled the trigger.


	10. Tall, Dark, and Fluffy

_Some of the things that happened as he worked numbers were things he'd never talk about. Never._

* * *

 _Non-scientific effects of catnip, but I blame it on Janet Careese. She probably made something to the catnip extracts._

* * *

 **Tall, Dark, and Fluffy**

It had all begun with their previous number, a thirty-seven years old veterinarian by the name Janet Careese. An interesting woman... with interesting ideas. Fusco had made a dubious joke about how she was the same as John, except she cared. John had glowered at him, but hadn't said anything.

The problem, though, hadn't laid in Ms Careese's ideas, nor hadn't it come from the perp who wanted her dead – a somber story about a pet turtle she hadn't been able to save, that had ended with a dramatic confession to Carter, nothing terrible.

The problem, John would tell you if he hadn't sworn never to speak of it to anyone, was that amongst other things, Janet Careese had had an important quantity of distilled catnip in her lab, for whatever reason, and said important quantity of distilled catnip had entirely ended up soaking John's suit after a short fight with the would-be murderer.

Then, another number had come up, and John hadn't had the time to go and change his clothes.

Yet another unlawful investigation later, John ended up standing in front of a building he knew to be Elias'. One of the crime boss' men had taken a liking to a waitress, and from there, things had gone bad; the waitress already had a boyfriend, the criminal refused to take no for an answer, John had barely managed to keep him from killing the boyfriend – because of some rather invading pets who seemed to think he smelled wonderful and hence that they should stay with him at all times. Elias' man had used his furry distractions to get the hell away, and John had tracked him down to here.

" _Mr Reese, I know you can take care of yourself, but are you certain you don't want the detectives' assistance, in case something goes..."_

"No, Finch. I'll handle it myself, thank you very much."

No way he was giving ammunition to Fusco by letting him see that.

John doubted that Elias would appreciate one of his men to disturb his business because he was hopelessly in love and hopelessly violent, but at the same time, he could guess that the mob boss wouldn't be overly pleased with seeing him walk in to get the moron as if he owned the place.

John ignored the several meows in the background – the fight had drown some of the cats away, but they had come back as soon as it had stopped – and decided to call before entering. Maybe they could make a deal.

The sound of the call connecting almost went unheard as a particularly adventurous feline jumped onto John and decided it found the Man in a Suit particularly comfortable to take a nap – on his shoulders. Claws out, and digging into the suit not the fall.

" _John?"_

He winced, and tried to shake off the offending animal, but the beast was tenacious.

"Elias. I was wondering if you'd agree to hand over the fool in your organization who's been threatening his crush's boyfriend with your name because he's a freaking moron, before anything too grave happens. I'm certain some time away from the young woman would clear his head, and you wouldn't have to deal with a problematic employee who runs to your secret factory anytime he gets in non-business-related trouble. As you probably know already, I'm just outsi..."

John hissed at the cat who had sunk his claws in his left unkle, and shook it away, half-tempted to fire a shot in the air and get them all to run away as a consequence.

A window opened on the first floor – from where John was standing, he couldn't see who was at the window, but he already knew why.

A moment later, Elias' voice rose again from the phone, sounding vaguely perplexed.

" _Why is there an army of cats following you, according to Anthony?"_

John squinted at the open window.

"None of your business. If you agree, just hand the guy over, and I'll forget to mention he also works for you to our friendly detectives."

The call disconnected without him having an actual answer, and two minutes later, the door of the old factory opened, revealing the problematic man, held down by Anthony Marconi. Scarface had an incredibly contented look on his face, and a camera in his hand. Too late.

"Not a word."

To Marconi's credit, he didn't speak – only handed over the guy, and smirked.

The cat on his shoulder seemed very comfortable, and didn't appear to want to leave any time soon.


	11. Broken World

_John Riley is a NYPD detective, and has had a problem ever since his wife was assaulted and left in a coma a few months ago, everyone agree on that, and they are worried._

 _(John Riley was never John Reese, he's just having a psychotic break._  
 _Or perhaps Samaritan brainwashed everyone - perhaps it's a simulation - to get him to lead them to the Machine._  
 _Then again, that theory too could be part of his delusions._  
 _Or at least that's what they want him to think.)_

* * *

 _I'm letting you reach the conclusion you prefer - I think I made it ambiguous enough._

* * *

 **Broken World**

Captain Moreno decided that day, as she watched her people working on various cases, that Detective John Riley had a problem. Or rather, Riley was the problem.

The man – tall, graying hair, handsome, tailored suit, strong – had a certain propensity to shoot kneecaps, was hardly easy to find whenever you wanted to talk to him, but always walked out of the shadows without a sound whenever you weren't expecting him to, and finally, he arrested more perps red-handed and before they killed someone than he discovered who was guilty of a murder. Which wasn't, of course, a bad thing, since that way, at least, the victims usually lived. But it was odd for a homicide detective.

Everyone in the precinct wondered how exactly Riley knew where to be just at the right time, but no one ever asked. Everyone could tell the man didn't have a problem with violence, but not even IA, especially their boss Greer, could do a thing about it, because aside from that one time with the bus, the shooting / fighting / intimidating was done within the rules – loosely so, but still. Everyone felt there was something different about Riley... They just didn't know what to say about it.

It was here, and yet it wasn't here.

Moreno had met John Riley five years ago, when she had been assigned to the 8th precinct. He had started as a detective three years before that, after having left the military – from here came his ease with killing, people said, because Riley was more of a necessity guy than a rules guy. Captain Moreno did know for a fact that he was who he said he was, no error there.

But lately, something had changed. Nothing visible, nothing tangible – no evidence to speak of. But it was different. Riley was different. Since his wife had been assaulted at the beginning of the year, in fact. Since Jessica Riley was in a coma at the hospital.

Moreno knew who John Riley was. But she had a feeling the man himself might not know who he was anymore. That, maybe, the detective thought he was someone else, someone who needed to pretend they were John Riley.

The problem being that whoever Riley thought he was, that person was very, very good at being John Riley. The only proof Moreno had of the shift in personality wasn't a proof. It was only instinct. It was only her having known John Riley for years, and knowing when something was off – not what was off, but that it was off.

These last months, Riley had been off all the time.

 **oOo**

Detective Lionel Fusco sat at his desk, ready to do the damn paperwork for their previous case, but he couldn't help glancing at John, his partner, who was also looming over paperwork, with a face that screamed imminent murder. Just like always. Whenever someone wanted to make a suspect they had brought to the precinct speak, they just left the person to sit next to John's desk while they took all their time getting coffee. It usually sufficed to get the suspect very, very anxious.

These days, though, since the assault to be exact, John looked even more murderous than usual. That is, the cold, calm kind of murderous. Not angry or aggressive... Just passively threatening.

Like, I-can-kill-you-nineteen-different-ways-but-I-won't-unless-you-give-me-a-reason-to menacing.

John had been like that for a time after Carter's – another detective, a friend with whom they used to work whenever the other wasn't available – death, last year, but it hadn't lasted more than a week. Now, it was a constant.

Then again, Jessica's assailant had never been identified, so Lionel could kind of understand why John felt off.

What he didn't understand, was where his partner kept disappearing to, like, at any hour of the day – or the night, for the matter. What was John doing, that he came back with more bruises, cuts, and occasionally bullet wounds, every two days or so? How did the guy know where to show up to twarth so many on-going criminal activities?

John refused to tell him about his intel, Lionel knew, even if his guy was very good at redirecting, so good that the other detective never noticed it before the guy was gone, even though they had known each other for a few years already.

What was really weird, though, was the way John seemed to expect him to just accept it – and, alright, Lionel had always let the taller man get away with a lot of things, mostly because he didn't know how to say no to Tall, Dark and Stormy, but this? This was a whole new level of secrecy.

John was hiding something actively – the man always kept things quiet, but that was him being passive, not revealing unnecessary things and all that.

Lionel was worried, to say the truth. Since the aggression, John... John was just more John than ever, in a way. Every suspicious part of the man had reached a new extreme. And that, Lionel knew only because he had spent a lot of time working with the man.

 **oOo**

Doctor Iris Campbell had been tasked with making sure that Detective John Riley was okay, even after what had happened to his wife, and for the first time in her career, she was utterly failing.

Well, not quite. In all sincerity, she did know there was something wrong with the detective, it was just that she couldn't manage to get him to open up and talk about it. More than that, Riley was very good at compartmentalizing, and at keeping control of what he did say and what he didn't; as a consequence, the man had told her about some personal things, about his father, about his past... but nothing relating to Jessica Riley's assault, nothing about what she really needed to hear to help him.

What Riley had told Iris was important, of course, but what he hadn't told her was even more important to understand him and what he was going through. She guessed it was better than nothing that, at least, he had started talking, but it certainly wasn't enough.

Like many former soldiers who had undergone some unpleasant times with their enemies, John Riley knew how to keep his mouth shut. More than that, he knew how to keep silent, and make it impossible to deduce what exactly he was hiding, even if he wasn't bothering that much with making it discreet... Which might be even more effective a method, because if he had gone on pretending he was fine, like he had first attempted, Iris would know where to start, using the fake bridges he'd have been constructing between them to make him realize she could see through it.

The trick being never to let the patient know how much exactly you could see through, so that they'd talk about even the things the therapist had no idea about, because they thought the therapist already knew.

A trick she couldn't use on Riley anymore, because the man was simply not talking, and thus she couldn't tell him she knew he was lying...

Iris had, of course, read his file. There was a period of two years, after he left the army, during which the man had apparently drifted around without a real purpose, as some veterans sometimes did, but looking at John Riley, Iris thought it sounded fake. Official, but fake. And she couldn't start to tell what was hidden behind these fake years.

The problem, with Detective Riley, was that he had too many secrets, important or not, and that he was treating them all on the same level. That is, complete confidentiality. Meaning, Iris had no idea where to start, and Riley could always give up on a personal detail and it still felt like he had revealed something terribly important.

Of course, John Riley also had a problem, that much the therapist was certain of. But she wouldn't be able to help him unless she could first unravel the tangled mysteries he lived with.

 **oOo**

Sameen Gray passed by the precinct to check on John around midday, bringing him something to eat – if she didn't, she was almost certain he'd forget; it had happened too many times since Jessica's aggression already.

He barely acknowledged her, again – that is, he said Hi, he smiled thinly, he did everything normal for a homicide detective working hard on a case, but Sameen wasn't fooled.

He'd probably call her in the middle of the night, needing backup to take on NYC's finest of organized crime or something like that, and evidently, Sameen would go and help him even if she had no idea how he got all his intel – part of it, sure, considering she was dating the psycho who lurked in the depths of the dark web in search of illegal conversations about who was going to gun who down this fine evening, but not all of it. She'd go, partly because she was worried about John, partly because she liked the action.

John and her had known each other during their two years off the grid, after the Delta Force for him and the Corps for her. They had worked together, and done some interesting jobs, and when a mission had gone sour and their employer had offered them to walk out and go on living normally, they hadn't hesitated. Mostly because their employer's boss hadn't appreciated the latest events – freaking bureaucrats, no idea what field work was like – and would have probably sent them on a suicide mission at one point or another as revenge, and they both knew it.

Then, surprisingly, John had gone and joined the force, while Sameen did odd jobs while searching for something more interesting and not completely illegal. Right now, she was a cosmetic saleswoman, and she hated it.

Perhaps she'd have to take Root on her offer, and become the Machine Coffee's bouncer. God knew the place attracted all kinds of unsavory characters, and Root had too fun a time using her taser.

Not that Sameen minded.

Had Sameen been someone else, and had she not known John as she did, she might have refused to help him with his mysterious crusade if he didn't spill what was wrong.

Except Sameen liked the action, was worried about John getting himself shot being the daredevil he was if he always went alone, and knew perfectly that if she tried to coax an answer out of him, he'd simply push her back and start doubting her too. Sometimes, not asking questions was the better way to find out what was wrong, even if it took longer.

And if Sameen was right, and John really was having a psychotic break – the day he had called her to get rid of Peter Arndt, Jessica's attacker, in a mexican jail under a false name, and Sameen had come to find the guy inconscious, bleeding, and with two broken legs, and the fact that John continued acting as if it had never happened, was enough of a hint – then she could tell the man was certain that whatever secret he was keeping, Sameen was on it too. If she didn't act as if she already knew the secret, he'd assume she had been turned against him.

And that, that would cause things to get ugly.

So for now, Sameen was simply watching her partner's back, observing, and hoping.

 **oOo**

Root – also know as Samantha Groves – didn't particularly like the big lug – alright, she did, a little, but she wouldn't admit to anything – but John Riley was Sameen's best friend, and the only reason Root's girlfriend wasn't out there searching for an illegal job where she could beat people senseless – since, you know, John and Sameen did that together already.

Also, John Riley was proving to be useful as an enforcer whenever Root sent him a social security number, for someone she had heard about on the dark web, who might or might not get in trouble or commit a crime in the next days. Not that Root cared much about what happened to these people, you know, but since she had the knowledge she might as well have John act upon it.

And there was the fact that whatever delusion the big guy was living in these last months, he was being terribly efficient about it. Interesting on a mental health point of view, and on a more practical plane too, because Root just didn't know where he got all his intel, and she didn't like not knowing – John Riley was getting part of his intel from her, obviously, but there were a number of cases she had nothing to do with, and his job had nothing to do with either, so what?

No, Root wasn't worried about John. Why would she be?

She'd just hate it if the guy got himself killed, and Sameen had to deal with the fallout. And she wouldn't be happy if he died before she could figure out from where he got the rest of his intel. And she'd have to find someone else to partner up with Sameen whenever Root's girlfriend got a bit too trigger-happy, and that would prove to be an ordeal, because Sameen simply didn't like most people – not efficient enough, not professional enough, boring, annoying, useless, spineless, your pick.

No, Root didn't care about John Riley. Certainly not.

But she wanted to know, and so far, the only real clue she had was a name, "Harold", which John had spoken about when off working a number, as if Sameen was supposed to know who this "Harold" was.

So far, Root hadn't been able to gather anything about a "Harold" connected to John Riley, except a janitor in the building next to John's, but she doubted that was it. So either Harold was a complete construct of the big guy's imagination, or it was code standing for something else.

Root would discover what answer was the right one. And no, she wasn't doing it for John's sake.


End file.
